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THE 



Farm and the Fireside: 



SKETCHES OF DOMESTIC LIFE 
IN WAR AND IN PEACE. 



AVRITTKN AND PUBLISHED FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT 

OF THE GOOD PEOPLE AT HOME, AND 

DEDICATED ESPECIALLY TO 

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN. 



BY 

CHAS. H. SNIITM 

(BILL ARP.) 




JAN 221892 






ATLANTA, GEORGIA : 
The Constitution Publishing Company, 






Copyright applied for 

By The Constitution Publishing Company, 

Atlanta, Georgia. 



CONTENTS. 



The Georgia Cracker and the Gander Pijling 9 

The Original *'BillArp" 18 

Big John 27 

The Roman Runagee 31 

His Late Trials and Adventures 37 

Bill Arp Addresses Artemus Ward 43 

The Falling Leaves 46 

Adventures on the Farm 52 

Smoking the Pipe of Peace 58 

The Sounds on the Front Piazza 63 

Mr. Arp Feels His Inadequacy 67 

A Feast in a Sycamore Grove 70 

Trials and Tribulations • 74 

Love Affairs 78 

Tells of His Wife's Birthday 82 

Mrs. Arp Goes Off on a Visit 85 

The Voice of Spring 90 

The Love of Money 96 

Cobe Talks a Little 99 

The Ups and Downs of Farming 103 

The Family Preparing to Receive City Cousins •__- 108 

Bad Luck in the Family 112 

The Struggle for Money 117 

On a Strain . 126 

New Years Time 130 

Old Things are Passing Away 134 

The Country 138 



VI CONTENTS. 

But Once a Year 142" 

Grandfather's Days 150 

Making Sausage ^- 157 

The Old Trunk ,--- 162 

The Georgia Colonel 166 

On the Old Times — Alexa#ler Stephens, etc 169 

Sticking to the Old 174 

A Prose Poem on Spring 178 

Uncle Bart 181 

Christmas on the Farm 188 

Democratic Principles 187 

Politics 191 

Harvest Time 194 

The Old and the New 197 

The Old School Days 211 

Old School Days 216 

Roasting Ears and the Midnight Dance 221 

Open House 224 

The Old Tavern 228 

The Old Time Darkeys 232 

Owls, Snakes and Whang-Doodles 238 

The Autumn Leaves 242 

Uncle Tom Barker 246 

Bill Arp^on Josh Billings 252 

The Code Duello 255 

Billy in' the Low Grounds 260 

William Gets Left 263 

Pleasures of Hope and Memory 267 

Arp's Reminiscences of Fifty Years 271 

William and His Wife Visit the City 277 

The Buzzard Lope 281 

Up Among the Stars 285- 



CONTENTS. Vll 

Oh! These Women 289 

The Mischievous Little Ones 298 

Thoughts on Spring and Love 297 

Bill Arp Plays Ring Master 301 

Doctors Turned Loose 305 

On Hailstones, etc 309 

Runaway Negroes, Ghosts and Old-Time Darkeys 313 

The Candy Pulling 318 

Family Reform 322 

Music 327 

The Sorrel Hair 333 



THE FARM AND THE FIRESIDE, 



CHAPTER I. 



The Georgia Cracker and the Gander Pulling. 

Not to go back in history further than my own time and recollec- 
tions, let me venture upon some unoccupied territory and tell how 
Cherokee Georgia became the home of that much-maligned and mis- 
understood individual known as the Georgia cracker. I have lived 
long in his region, and am close akin to him. 

There is really but little difference between the Georgia cracker and 
the Alabama or Tennessee cracker. They all have, or had, the same 
origin, and until the Appalachian range was opened up to the rest of 
mankind by railroads and the school-house, these crackers had ways 
and usages, and a language peculiarly their own. 

It will be remembered that until 1835 the Cherokee Indians owned 
and occupied this region of Georgia — the portion lying west of the 
Chattahoochee and north of the Tallapoosa rivers. They were the 
most peaceable and civilized of all the tribes, but they were not sub- 
ject to Georgia laws, and had many conflicts and disturbances with 
their white nabors. It seemed to be manifest destiny that they should 
go. "Go west, red man," was the white man's fiat. They went at 
the point of the bayonet, and all their beautiful country was suddenly 
opened to the ingress of whomsoever might come. Georgia had it 
surveyed and divided into lots of 40 and 160 acres, and then made 
a lottery and gave every man and widow and orphan child a chance 
in the drawing. But the cracker didn't wait for the drawing. The 
rude, untamed and restless people from the mountain borders of Geor- 
gia and the Carolinas flocked hither to pursue their wild and fascinat- 
ing occupation of hunting and fishing for a livelihood. They came 
separately, but soon assimilated and shared a common interest. There 



10 The Farm and The Fireside. 

are such spirits in every community. There are some right here now 
who would rather go up to Cohutta mountains on a bear hunt than to 
go to New York or Paris for pleasure. I almost would myself, and I 
recall the earnest cravings of my youth to go west and find a wilder- 
ness, and with my companions live in a hut and kill deer and turkeys, 
and sometimes a bear and a panther. 

But for my town raising and old field school education I, too, would 
have made a very respectable cracker. This was the class of young 
men and middle-aged that first settled among these historic hills and 
valleys and climbed these mountains and fished in these streams. By 
and by the fortunate owners of these lands received their certificates 
and many of them came from all parts of the State to look up their 
lots and see how much gold or how much bottom land there was upon 
them, but gold was the principal attraction. The Indians had found 
gold and washed it out of the creeks and branches and traded it in 
small parcels to the white man, and it was believed that every stream 
was lined with golden sand. This proved an illusion, and so the 
squatters were not disturbed, or else they bought their titles for a song 
and then sang ''sweet home" of their own. They built their cabins 
and cleared their lands and raised their scrub cattle, and with their 
old-fashioned rifles kept the family in game. Many of these settlers 
could read and write, but in their day there was but little to read. 
No newspapers, and but few books were found by the hunter's fireside. 
Their children grew up the same way, but what they lacked in culture 
they supplied in rough experiences and hair-breadth escapes and fire- 
side talk and in the sports that were either improvised or inherited. 
Pony races gander pullings, shooting matches, coon hunting and 
quiltings had more attractions than books. How they got to using 
such twisted language as you'uns and we'uns and inguns and mout and 
gwine and all sich is not known, nor was such talk universal. When 
such idioms began in a family they descended and spread out among 
the kindred, but it was not contagious. I know one family now of 
very extensive connections who have a folk-lore of their own, and it 
can be traced back to the old ancestor who died half a century ago. 
But these corruptions of language are by no means peculiar to the 
cracker, for the English cockneys and the genuine yankee have an 
idiom quite as eccentric, though they do not realize it and would not 
admit it. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 11 

The Georgia cracker was a merry-hearted, unconcerned, independ- 
ent creature, and all he asked was to be let alone by the laws and the 
outside world. 

The justice court of his beat was quite enough limitation for him. 
He had far more respect for the old spectacled 'squire than for the 
highest court in the nation. From this home-made tribunal he never 
appealed until the young lawyers began to figure m it, and seduced 
him into the mysteries of the law and the wonderful performances of 
the writ of "sasherary." Nevertheless, they looked upon lawyers as 
suspects and parasites, and their descendants have the same opinion 
still. The old 'squire was specially "foment" them, and looked upon 
the sasherary as an insult to his judicial capacity. Sometimes he 
would let two young limbs of the law argue a case before him for half 
an hour, and then quietly remark, "Gentlemen, I judgmenticated this 
case last night at home," and would proceed with his docket. That 
old 'squire and the preacher were quite enough to pilot these people 
through life and across the dark river. 

A few years after they had settled down as the successors to the 
Indians a class of more substantial citizens began to look in upon this^s 
beautiful country. They purchased the valley lands and the river 
bottoms, and soon the forests began to fall before the ax of the pio- 
neers. Some of them brought slaves with them and erected sawmills 
and framed houses with glass windows to live in, and the school mas- 
ter came along, but the crackers were in the majority and lived along 
in the same old primitive way. ^As late as 1847 they had gander 
pullings, and one that I witnessed that summer lasted for two hours, 
and the original Bill Arp was the victor. I could have seen more of 
them, .but I did not care to, just for the same reason that a kind- 
hearted man does not wish to see but one hanging. 

One Saturday morning when we arrived at Blue Gizzard court- 
ground, the clans had gathered in unusual force. As preliminary to 
the more important contest that was soon to come off, some of the 
boys were shooting at a small piec6 of white paper that was pinned to 
a distant tree. Some were gathered around the spring. Some were 
trying old Mother Tutten's fresh cider and ginger cakes that she 
offered from the hindgate of her little wagon, and some were sampling 
the corn whiskey that was kept in a j*ug in the little log courthouse 
hard by. We soon perceived the central and most attractive spot to 



12 The Farm and The Fireside. 

be a small tree with a limb forking about ten feet from its base. A 
long, slender, springy pole was resting in the fork with the large end 
pressed to the ground and fastened with stobs crossed on either side 
and driven firmly in the clay. This incline raised the long end of the 
pole quite high in the air, and to that end was looped a plow line, 
and to the lower end of the line another loop was slipped over the 
crimson feet of a venerable gander and left him swinging, head down- 
wards, just high enough for a horseman to reach it easily as he rode 
underneath. The doomed bird gave an occasional squawk, and, with 
wings half open and neck half bent, looked with inquisitive alarm 
upon the proceedings. The feathers had been stripped from its neck 
and a thick coat of grease put on instead. The undergrowth had 
been removed and a running path for the horsemen carefully cleared 
of all obstructions. The tournament began at 11 o'clock. Twenty 
sovereigns, mounted on their plow nags, ranged themselves at one end 
of the path and awaited the call of their names by the old 'squire, 
who had them written on a fly-leaf in the back of his docket. No 
man was allowed to ride until he had planked up a dollar. The old 
'squire had contributed the gander just out of good will to the boys, 
he said, and he was nominated as treasurer and umpire and carried 
the bag, and on his decision the whole sum was to be awarded the vic- 
tor. He had adjourned his court for two hours to see the fun and 
keep down any disturbance of the peace. Eight " whippers" were 
mustered in, four on each side of the running course. They were all 
armed with good long switches or hickorys, and their willing duty 
was to see to it that no man's nag moved towards the gander with less 
alacrity than a gallop. " Now, boys," said he, "not a lope that would 
keep a nag a-lopin' half an hour in the shade of a tree, but a right 
lively gallop, and if the critter slows up any, you must peartin him 
up a little — especially as he's a-nighin' towards the gander." 

The boys were true sovereigns. They were not knights. They 
were arrayed in their home-made pants and home-made shirts 
and home-knit galluses. Their shoes were made at the tanners and 
their hats at the hatter's. Coats and vests were not in their 
regalia. All the naborhood were their spectators, including many 
women, some with infants at the breast and some with sons in the 
tournament. 

The gathering people exchanged salutations and smiles and gave the 



The Farm and The Fireside.. 13 

family news and gradually drew near the place where the anserian 
struggle was impending. 

The old squire had participated in some old-fashioned musters in 
his day, and so, when everything was ready he stood on a log and, 
raising his right hand, exclaimed: ^'Tention company! In the pro- 
ceedings that we are about to proceed with it are expected that every 
man will conduct his behavior accordin* to what's far and honest — no 
man are to take any disadvantage of ary other man nor of the gan- 
der. Thar he are hangin' without a friend. Tote fair boys, tote fair; 
and put him out of misery as quick as you ken, in reason. Jack 
Pullum — three paces to the front — now ready — aim — charge." 

As Jack stuck his heels in his pony's flank the crowd shouted: 
"Charge 'em Jack! Charge 'em!" But Jack's critter wasent used to 
charging. He rebelled at the go and the ''whippers in" had to come 
to his support. He dashed in and out of the path wildly, but finally 
took the bit in his teeth and started down the line on a desperate run 
for freedom amid the shouts and cheers of the multitude. He steered 
well until he suddenly eyed the great white bird just ahead of him: 
He stopped as if on the brink of a precipice, but Jack went on. That 
capped the climax of tumultuous hilarity. The like of that was 
what they came for. Jack caught on his hands and feet, and was 
soon remounted and took another start, and his nag behaved better, 
but still did not come in reach of the gander, and Jack lost his 
chance until the second grand round. "We'uns hain't got no geese 
at our house," said he, "and my animal never seed one afore as I 
knows on." 

"Samuel Swillin, to the front," called the 'squire. "Ready, aim, 
charge." Sam's critter was more tractable and Sam got a fair grab, 
but the grease was too slick for him, and as he slipped his hold the 
poor bird swang to and fro and flapped his wings and squawked loud 
and long at the terrible squeeze and the more terrible elongation of 
his oesophagus. Sam was congratulated on his effort. He wiped his 
fingers on a pine top, and said: "Yes I'll be dadburued if I wouldent 
have got him, but the dingd thing was so allfired slickery. I was in 
hopes that Jack Pullum would have got the fust grab and sleeked 
offen some of it." 

"Eube Underwood — to the front — ready — aim — charge." Rube 
had a big mouth, and was freckled faced and red headed, and rode a 



14 The Farm and The Fireside. 

flee-bitten gray that had been taught to dance and prance around and 
go sideways — "jest to show smart," as the boys said — and it took the 
animal sometime to be convinced that dancing and prancing wasn't in 
order at this particular time. A walloping lick just as he neared the 
goal caused him to make a fearful leap right under the bird, and as Rube 
had to use both hands to hold his seat, the gander's head collided 
square in Rube's face and some swore got in his mouth and "effen he 
had jest shet it he would have had the prize." He retired in good 
order and awaited his second turn. One by one the riders came as 
they were called. One after another got some of the grease and wiped 
it on their horses' manes, but the muscles of the gander were old and 
tough, and every one of the twenty had gone his round and failed, when 
the squire called a halt and ordered another greasing. It was evident, 
however, that some damage had been done the bird, for his wings hung 
droopy and his voice was failing him. There was a laceration of 
sinews going on, and but for the fresh greasing the sport would have 
soon ended. **'Tention, company," said the 'squire. **The proceed- 
inses will now take a little recess. Boys, you can light and look at 
your saddles, and ef you want water you can go to the spring and git 
it, but don't wait long, for my old gander are hangin' there without a 
friend and sufierin'." 

The tournament was soon resumed. Bill Arp was the tenth man 
of the second round. He was the tenth of the first, and many pre- 
dicted then that he would break that gander's neck or the plow line or 
the pole, for his grip was like a vise and his agility notorious, but 
somehow the gander ducked at the critical moment and Bill grabbed 
his head instead of his neck and made a miscarriage. 

As Bill's turn came again the crowd ejaculated : ''Now, watch him 
boys." ''Can't he ride, though?" ''See how he sots on his critter." 
"Blamed if he ain't tarred to his nag." "Look at his eye." "No 
whippers for him." "He's a gwine to carry that gander's head a half 
a mile before he stops." "Farewell, goose, I'll preach your funeral." 
"Good-bye gander." 

And sure enough. Bill got the right grip this time and in a trice 
had given the neck a double and something had to break as the pole 
and the line swiftly followed his motion. For a moment it seemed 
uncertain what would break or what had broken for the strained ten- 
dons popped like a whip as Bill's nag went on at full speed. For a 



The Farm and The Fireside. 15 

little while the quivering, headless body swung backwards and for- 
wards and was then at rest. Then came the shouts and wild hurrah. 
Bill was game and so was his critter, and as they came round to the 
front the crowd gathered round to see the gander's head that he held 
high in his hand — the warm blood trickling from the arteries. After 
the jubilee was over Bill invited the nineteen and the 'squire to old 
Mother Tutten's wagon, and having purchased her stock of cakes and 
cider and the jug in the courthouse he " gin 'em all a treat." There 
was not a fuss nor a fight in all the '* proceedinses." In a few min- 
utes thereafter the voice of the bailiff was heard crying " Oh yes, oh 
yes — the honorable court of the 825th deestrict are now met kordin' 
to adjournment. God save the state and the honorable court." "^ 

These rough, rude people were the original Georgia crackers. They 
constituted a large proportion of the population of Cherokee half a 
century ago. They were generally poor, but they enjoyed life more 
than they did money. They were sociable and they were kind. 
When one of their number was sick they nursed him — when he died 
they dug a grave and buried him, and that was the end of the chap- 
ter. There was no tombstone, no epitaph, no obituary. Their class 
is fast disappearing from our midst. Civilization has encroached upon 
them, and now their children and their children's children have assim- 
ilated with a higher grade of humanity. 

It was among these untutored people that I cast my professional 
fortunes about 42 years ago. I had been studying law about two 
months and was admitted on the sly on promise of future diligence — 
or rather upon the idea that if anybody was fool enough to employ 
me it was nobody else's business. Another young man of my age was 
admitted at the same time and he knew less of law if possible than I 
did. I remember that the first case we had was up in Shake-rag 
district where two nabors had fallen out because one had accused the 
other of stealing his hog. And so he sued him m justices court for 
thirty dollars worth of slander. My Brother Alexander was employed 
for the plaintiff and I for the defendant. 1 dident know that a jus- 
tice court had no jurisdiction over a slander case. My Brother Alex- 
ander dident know it. The jury dident know it. I rather suspect 
that the old 'squire knew it but he wasent the man to limit his own con- 
sequence and so we rolled up our sleeves and waded in. My Brother 
Alexander made a very fine speech for his maiden effort. He talked 



16 The Farm and The Fireside. 

eloquently to that jury about the value of a man's character — how 
dear it was to him and his wife and his children and how it should be 
transmitted down the line from generation to generation pure and 
untarnished by the foul breath of slander. And he closed his speech 
with an extract from Shakespeare, wherein he said "He who steals my 
purse steals trash, but he who filches from me my good name takes 
that which does not enrich him but makes me poor indeed." 

I was very much alarmed and very much impressed with his elo- 
quence, and so I concluded that my very best chance was to ridicule 
the whole business and laugh it out of court if I could, and I told 
that jury in conclusion that it was impossible for my client to slander 
anybody for he had no character of his own to begin with, and 
nobody would believe anything he said whether he was on oath or off 
oath. 

The old 'squire charged the jury to weigh all the evidence and to 
agree on a verdik if they could, and if they couldn't then they mout 
split the difference and compromise. The jury retired to a log near 
by and cussed and discussed the matter and joked and carried on 
powerful, and in about half an hour came back with this verdik, 
"We, the jury, find for the plaintiff two dollars and a half, onless the 
defendant will take back what he said.'* 

Well, I didn't exactly know whether I had gained the case or lost 
it, but I took my client out doors and advised him to take it back 
and save the cost. He finally consented to do this, but said he had 
hearn that they was gwine to make him sign a lie-bill and he'd be 
dingnation dadburned if he would do it. So we returned to the seat 
of war and I stated to his honor that my client had concluded to 
accept the suggestion of the jury and would take back what he said. 
The old 'squire congratulated us on our disposition to peace and har- 
mony, and just then my client stretched forth his hand and said: 
"But 'squire, if I take back what I said, I want it understood that he 
must bring my hog back." 

The next question that came up was who should pay the cost. I 
contended that my client had complied with the verdict of the jury 
and was not bound for the costs. My Bro. Alexander contended that 
he complied a little too late ; that he had to be sued to make him com- 
ply, and therefore he was bound for the costs. The old 'squire seemed 
muddled over the question, and finally said that he would leave it to 



The Fakm and The Fireside. 17 

the jury. So they retired to the log again, and in about five minutes 
came back with this verdict: "We, the jury, find that the lawyers 
shall pay the cost." 

Well, I thought it was all right — and I think so yet. I planked up 
my dollar, and my Bro* Alexander paid his and we mounted our 
horses and rode home covered with dust and glory — and glory was all 
we ever received from our clients. 



18 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER II. 



The Original "Bill Arp." 

Some time in the spring of 1861, when our Southern boys were 
hunting for a fight, and felt like they could whip all creation, Mr. 
Lincoln issued a proclamation ordering us all to disperse and retire 
within 30 days, and to quit cavorting around in a hostile and bellige- 
rent manner. 

I remember writing an answer to it as though I was a good Union 
man and a law-abiding citizen, and was walling to disperse, if I could, 
but it was almost impossible, for the boys were mighty hot, and the 
way we made up our military companies was to send a man down the 
lines with a bucket of water and sprinkle the boys as he came to 'em, 
and if a feller sizzed like hot iron in a slack trough, we took him, and 
if he didn't sizz, we dident take him; but still, nevertheless, notwith- 
standing, and so forth, if we could possibly disperse in 30 days we 
would do so, but I thought he had better give us a little more time, 
for I had been out in old field by myself and tried to disperse myself 
and couldent do it. 

I thought the letter was right smart, and decently sarcastic, and so I 
read it to Dr. Miller and Judge Underwood, and they seemed to think 
it was right smart, too. About that time I looked around and saw 
Bill Arp standing at the door with his mouth open and a merry glisten 
in his eye. As he came forward, says he to me: "Squire, are you 
gwine to print that?" 

"I reckon I will. Bill," said I. "What name are you gwine to put 
to it?" said he. "I don't know yet," said I; " I havent thought 
about a name." Then he brightened up and said: "Well, 'Squire, 
I wish you would put mine, for them's my sentiments; " and I promised 
him that I would. 

So I did not rob Bill Arp of his good name, but took it on request, 
and now, at this late day, when the moss has covered his grave, I will 
record some pleasant memories of a man whose notoriety was not 



The Farm and The Fireside. 19 

■exteDsive, but who filled up a gap that was open, and who brightened 
up the flight of many an hour in the good old times, say from 30 to 
40 years ago. 

He was a small, sinewy man, weighing about 130 pounds, as active 
as a cat, and always presenting a bright and cheerful face. He had 
an amiable disposition, a generous heart, and was as brave a man as 
nature ever makes. 

He was an humble man and unlettered in books; never went to 
school but a month or two in his life, and could neither read nor write; 
but still he had more than his share of common sense; more than his 
share of good mother wit, and was always welcome when he came 
about. 

Lawyers and doctors and editors, .and such gentlemen of leisure 
who used to, in the olden time, sit around and chat and have a good 
time, always said, "come in Bill, and take a seat;" and Bill seemed 
grateful for the compliment, and with a conscious humility squatted 
on about half the chair and waited for questions. The bearing of the 
man was one of reverence for his superiors and thankfulness for their 
notice. 

Bill Arp was a contented man — contented with his humble lot. 
He never grumbled or complained at anything; he had desires and 
ambition, but it did not trouble him. He kept a feriy for a wealthy 
gentleman, who lived a few miles above town, on the Etowah river, 
and he cultivated a small portion of his land ; but the ferry was not 
of much consequence, and when Bill could slip off to town and hear 
the lawyers talk, he would turn over the boat and the poles to his 
wife or his children, and go. I have known him to take a back seat 
in the court house for a day at a time, and with a face all greedy for 
entertainment, listen to the learned speeches of the lawyers and charge 
of the court, and go home happy, and be able to tell to his admiring 
family what had transpired. He had the greatest reverence for 
Colonel Johnston, his landlord, and always said that he would about 
as leave belong to him as to be free; "for," said he, "Mrs. Johnston 
throws away enough old clothes and second-hand vittels to support my 
children, and they are always nigh enough to pick 'em up." 

Bill Arp lived in Chulio district; we had eleven districts in the 
county, and they had all such names as Pop-skull, and Blue-gizzard, 
and AVolf-skin, and Shake-rag, and Wild-cat, and Possum-trot, but 



20 The Fakm and The Fireside. 

Bill lived and reigned in Chulio. Every district had its best man ia 
those days, and Bill was the best man in Chulio. He could out-run, 
out-jump, out-swim, out-rastle, out-ride, out-shoot anybody, and was so- 
far ahead that everybody else had given it up, and Bill reigned 
supreme. He put on no airs about this, and his nabors were all 
his friends. 

But there was another district adjoining, and it had its best man, 
too. One Ben McGinnis ruled the boys of that beat, and after awhile 
it began to be whispered around that Ben wasn't satisfied with his 
limited territory, but would like to have a small tackle with Bill Arp. 
Ben was a pretentious man. He weighed about 165 pounds, and 
was considered a regular bruiser. When Ben hit a man he meant- 
business, and his adversary was. hurt— badly hurt, and Ben was glad 
of it. But when Bill Arp hit a man he was sorry for him, and if he 
knocked him down, he would rather help him up and brush the dirt 
off his clothes than swell around in triumph. Fighting was not very 
common with either. The quicker a man whips a fight the less of it 
he has to do, and both Ben and Bill had settled their standing most 
effectually. Bill was satisfied with his honors, but Ben was not, for 
there was many a Ransy Sniffle who lived along the line between the 
districts, and carried news from the one to the other, and made up the 
coloring, and soon it was narrated around that Ben and Bill had to 
meet and settle it. 

The court-grounds of that day consisted of a little log shanty and a 
shelf. The shanty had a dirt floor and a puncheon seat, and a slab 
fbr the 'Squire's docket, and the shelf was outside for the whiskey. 

The whiskey w^as kept in a gallon jug, and that held just about 
enough for the day's business. Most every body took a dram in those 
days, but very few took too much, unless, indeed, a dram was too 
much. It was very uncommon to see a man drunk at a country court- 
ground. Pistols were unknown, and bowie-knives and brass-knuckles 
and sling-shots and all other devices that gave one man an artful 
advantage over another. 

When Colonel Johnston, who was Bill Arp's landlord, and Major 
Ayer and myself got to Chulio, Bill Arp was there, and was pleas- 
antly howdying with his nabors, when suddenly we discovered Ben 
McGinnis arriving upon the ground. He hitched his horse to a swing- 
ing limb and dismounted and began trampoosing around, and every 







t-1 \ ^> 



The Farm and The Fireside. 23 

little crowd he got to, he would leau forward in an insolent manner 
and say, ''Anybody here got anything agin Ben McGinnis? Ef they 
have, I golly, I'll give 'em five dollars to hit that ; I golly, I dare any- 
body to hit that," and he would point to his forehead with an air of 
insolent defiance. 

Bill Arp was standing by us and I thought he looked a little more 
serious than I ever had seen him. Frank Ayer says to him, "Bill, I 
see that Ben is coming around here to pick a fight with you, and I 
want to say that you have got no cause of quarrel with him, and if he 
comes, do you just let him come and go, that's all." Col. Johnston 
says, ''Bill, he is too big for you, and your own beat knows you, and 
and you havn't done anything against Ben, and so I advise you to let 
him pass ; do you hear me ?" 

By this time Bill's nervous system was all in a quiver. His face 
had an air of rigid determination, and he replied humbly, but firmly, 
"Col. Johnston, I love you, and I respect you, too; but if Ben 
McGinnis comes up here outen his beat, and into ray beat, and me not 
having done nothing agin him, and he dares me to hit him, I'm going 
to hit him, if it is the last lick I ever strike. I'm no phist puppy dog, 
sir, that he should come out of his deestrict to bully me." 

I've seen Bill Arp in battle, and he was a hero. I've seen him when 
shot and shell rained around him, and he was cool and calm, and the 
same old smile was upon his featurrs, but I never saw him as intensely 
excited as he was that moment when Ben McGinnis approached us, 
and, addressing himself to Bill Arp, said, "I golly, I dare anybody 
to hit that." 

As Ben straightened up, Bill let fly with his hard, bony fist right 
in his left eye, and followed it up wath another so quick that the two 
blows seemed as one. I don't know how it was, and never will know ; 
but in less than a second. Bill had him down and was on him, and his 
fists and his elbows and his knees seemed all at work. He afterwards 
said that his knees worked on Ben's bread basket, which he knew was 
his weakest part. Ben hollered " enough" in due time, which was con- 
sidered honorable to do when a feller had enough, and Bill helped 
him up and brushed the dirt off* his clothes, and said, " Now% Ben, is 
it all over betwixt us, is you and me all right ? " And Ben said, " It's 
all right 'twixt you and me. Bill ; and you are much of a gentleman." 



24 The Fakm and The Fireside. 

Bill invited all hands up to the shelf, and they took a drink, and he 
and Ben were friends. 

This is enough of Bill Arp — the original, the simon pure. He was 
a good soldier in war. He was the wit and the wag of the camp- 
fires, and made many a homesick youth laugh away his melancholy. 
He was a good citizen in peace. When told that his son was killed he 
looked no surprise, but simply said: "Major, did he die all right?" 
When assured that he did, Bill wiped away a falling tear and said, "I 
only wanted to tell his mother." 

You may talk about heroes and heroines; I have seen all sorts, and 
so has most everybody who was in the war, but I never saw a more 
devoted heroine than Bill Arp's wife. She was a very humble 
woman, very, and she loved her husband with a love that was passing 
strange. I have seen that woman in town, three miles from her 
home, hunting around by night for her husband, going from one 
saloon to another, and in her kind, loving voice inquiring "is Wil- 
liam here?" Blessings on that poor woman; I have almost cried for 
her many a time. Poor William, how she loved him. How tenderly 
would she take him, when she found him, and lead him home, and 
bathe his head and put him to bed. She always looked pleased and 
thankful when apked about him, and would say, "he is a good little 
man, but you know he has his failmgs." She loved Bill and he loved 
her; he was weak and she was strong. There are some such women 
now, I reckon. I know there are some such men. 




Big John Laments the War. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 27 



CHAPTER III. 



Big John." 



" Big John" was one of the earliest settlers of Rome, and one of 
her most notable men. For several years he was known by his proper 
name of John Underwood, but when another John Underwood moved 
there, the old settler had to be identified by his superior size, and 
gradually lost his surname, and was know^n far and near as "Big 
John." The new comer was a man of large frame, weighing about 
225 pounds, but Big John pulled down the scales at a hundred pounds 
more. He had shorter arms and shorter legs, but his circumference 
was correspondingly immense. He was notable for his humor and 
his good humor. The best town jokes came from his jolly, fertile 
fancy, and his comments on men and things were always original, and 
as terse and vigorous as ever came from the brain of Dr. Johnson. 
He was a diamond in the rough. He had lived a pioneer among the 
Indians of Cherokee, and it was said fell m love with an Indian maid, 
the daughter of old Tustenuggee, a limited chief, and never married 
because he could not marry her. But if his disappointment preyed 
upon his heart, it did not prey long upon the region that enclosed it, 
for he continued to expand his proportions. He was a good talker 
and an earnest laugher — whether he laughed and grew fat, or grew 
fat and laughed, the doctors could not tell which was cause and which 
was effect, and it is still in doubt, but I have heard wise men affirm 
that laughing was the fat man's safety-valve, that if he did not laugh 
and shake and vibrate frequently, he would grow fatter and fatter, 
until his epidermic cuticle could not contain his oleaginous cor- 
porosity. 

Big John had no patience with the war, and wdien he looked upon 
the boys strutting around in uniform, and fixing up their canteens and 
haversacks, he seemed as much astonished as disgusted. He sat in his 
big chair on the sidewalk, and would remark, "I don't see any fun in 
the like of that. Somebody is going to be hurt, and fighting don't 



28 The Farm and The Fireside. 

prove anything. Some of our best people in this town are kin to 
thera fellers up North, and I don't see any sense in tearing up families 
by a fight." He rarely looked serious or solemn, but the impending 
strife seemed to settle him. *' Boys," said he, "I hope to God this 
thing will be fixed up without a fight, for fighting is a mighty bad 
business, and I never knowed it to do any good." 

Big John had had a little war experience — that is, he had volun- 
teered in a company to assist in the forcible removal of the Cherokees 
to the far west in 1835. It was said that he was no beligerent then, 
but wanted to see the maiden that he loved a safe transit, and so he 
escorted the old chief and his clan as far as Tuscumbia, and then broke 
down and returned to Ross Landing on the Tennessee river. He was too 
heavy to march, and when he arrived at the Landing, a prisoner was 
put in his charge for safe keeping. Ross Landing is Chattanooga now, 
and John Ross lived there, and was one of the chiefs of the Chero- 
kees. The prisoner was his guest, and his name was John Howard 
Payne. He was suspected of trying to instigate the Cherokees to 
revolt and fight, and not leave their beautiful forest homes on the 
Tennessee and Coosa and Oostanaula and the Etowah and Connasauga 
rivers. He brought Payne back as far as New Echota, or New Town, as 
it was called, an Indian settlement on the Coosa wattee, a few miles east 
of Calhoun, as now known. There he kept the author of *' Home, 
Sweet Home " under guard, or on his parol of honor, for three weeks, 
and night after night slept with him in his tent, and listened to his 
music upon the violin, and heard him sing his own sad songs until 
orders came for his discharge, and Payne was sent under escort to 
Washington. • 

Many a time have I heard Big John recite his sad adventures. *'It 
was a most distressive business," said he. "Them Injuns was heart- 
broken; I always knowd an Injun loved his hunting-ground and his 
rivers, but I never knowd how much they loved 'em before. You 
know they killed Ridge for consentin' to the treaty. They killed him 
on the first day's march and they wouldent bury him. We soldiers 
had to stop and dig a grave and put him away. John Ross and John 
Ridge were the sons of two Scotchmen, who came over here when they 
were young men and mixed up with these tribes and got their good 
will. These two boys were splendid looking men, tall and handsome, 
with long auburn hair, and they were active and strong, and could 



The Farm and The Fireside. 29 

shoot a bow equal to the best bowman of the tribe, and they beat 'em 
all to pieces on the croes-bow. They married the daughters of the old 
chiefs, and when the old chiefs died they just fell into line and suc- 
ceeded to the old chiefs' places, and the tribes liked 'em mighty well, 
for they were good men and made good chiefs. Well, you see Ross 
dident like the treaty. He said it wasent fair and that the price of the 
territory was too low, and the fact is he dident want to go at all. There 
are the ruins of his old home now over there in DeSoto, close to Rome, 
and I tell you he was a king. His word was the law of the Injun 
nations, and h.e had their love and their respect. His half-breed chil- 
dren were the purtiest things I ever saw in my life. Well, Ridge 
lived up the Oostanaula river about a mile, and he was a good man, too. 
Ross and Ridge always consulted about everything for the good of the 
tribes, but Ridge was a more milder man than Ross, and was more 
easily persuaded to sign the treaty that gave the lands to the State and 
to take other lands away out to the Mississippi. 

"Well, it took us a month to get 'em all together and begin the 
march to the Mississippi, and they wouldn't march then. The women 
would go out of line and set down in the woods and go to grieving, 
and you may believe it or not, but I'll tell you what is a fact, we 
started with 14,000, and 4,000 of 'em died before we got to Tuscum- 
bia. They died on the side of the road; they died of broken hearts; 
they died of starvation, for they w^ouldn't eat a thing; they just died 
all along the way. We didn't make more than five miles a day on the 
march, and my company didn't do much but dig graves and bury 
Injuns all the way to Tuscumbia. They died of grief and broken 
hearts, and no mistake. An Indian's heart is tender, and his love is 
strong; it's his nature. I'd rather risk an Injun for a true friend than 
a white man. He is the best friend in the world, and the worst 
enemy. He has got more gratitude and more revenge in him than 
"anybody." 

Big John's special comfort was a circus. He never missed one, and 
it was a good part of the show to see him laugh and shake and spread 
his magnificent face. 

He took no pleasure in the quarrels of mankind, and never backed 
a man in a fight ; but when two dogs locked teeth, or two bulls locked 
horns, or two game chickens locked spurs, he always liked to be about. 
" It is their nature to fight," said he, " and let 'em fight." He took 



30 The Farm and The Fireside. 

delight in watching dogs and commenting on their sense and disposi- 
tions. He compared them to the men about town, and drew some 
humorous analogies. "There is Jimmy Jones," said he, ''who 
ripped and splurged around because Georgia wouldn't secede in a min- 
ute and a half, and he swore he was going over to South Carolina to 
fight ; and when Georgia did secede shore enough, he didn't join the 
army at all, and always had some cussed excuse, and when conscrip- 
tion came along, he got on a detail to make potash, con-ding him, and 
when that played out he got him a couple ot track dogs and got 
detailed to catch runaway prisoners. Just so I've seen dogs run up 
and down the palings like they was dying to get to one another, and 
so one day I picked up my dog by the nap of the neck and dropped 
him over on the outside. I never knowed he could jump that fence 
before, but he bounced back like an Indian rubber ball, and the 
other dog streaked it down the sidewalk like the dickens was after 
him. Dogs are like folks, and folks are like dogs, and a heap of 'em 
want the palings between. Jack Bogin used to strut round and whip 
the boys in his beat, and kick 'em around, because he knew he could do 
it, for he had the most muscle ; but he couldn't look a brave man in 
the eye, muscle or no muscle, and I've seen him shut up quick when 
he met one. A man has got to be right to be brave, and I had 
rather see a bully get a licking than to eat sugar." 



The Farm and The Fireside. 31 



CHAPTER IV. 



The Roman Runagee. 

Atlanta, Ga., May 22, 1864. 

Mr. Editor: "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," as some- 
body said, I am seeking a log in some vast wilderness, a lonely roost 
in some Okeefenokee swamp, where the foul invaders cannot travel 
nor their pontoon bridges float. If Mr. Shakespeare were correct 
when he wrote that ''sweet are the juices of adversity," then it is 
reasonable to suppose that me and my folks, and many others, must 
have some sweetening to spare. When a man is aroused in the dead 
of night, and smells the approach of the foul invader; when he feels 
constrained to change his base and become a runagee from his home, 
leaving behind him all those ususary things, which hold body and soul 
together ; when he looks, perhaps the last time, upon his lovely home 
Nshere he has been for many delightful years raising children and 
chickens, strawberries and peas, lye soap and onions, and all such 
luxuries of this sublunary life; when he imagines every unusual 
sound to be the crack of his earthly doom; when from such influences 
he begins a dignified retreat, but soon is constrained to leave the dig- 
nity behind, and get away without regard to the order of his going — 
if there is any sweet juice in the like of that, I haven't been able to 
see it. No, Mr. Editor, such scenes never happened in Bill Shak- 
speare's day, or he wouldn't have written that line. 

I don't know that the lovely inhabitants of your beautiful city need 
any forewarnings, to make 'em avoid the breakers upon which our 
vessel was wrecked; but for fear they should sonie day shake their 
gory locks at me, I will make public a brief allusion to some of the 
painful circumstances which lately occurred in the eternal city. 

Not many days ago the everlasting Yankees (may they live always 
when the devil gets 'em,) made a valiant assault upon the city of the 
hills — the eternal city, where for a hundred years the Indian rivers 
have been blending their waters peacefully together — where the 
Cherokee children built their flutter mills, and toyed with frogs and 



32 The Farm and The Fireside. 

tadpoles whilst these majestic streams were but little spring branches 
babbling along their sandy beds. For three days and nights our 
valiant troops had beat back the foul invader, and saved* our pullets 
from their devouring jaws. For three days and nights we bade 
farewell to every fear, luxuriating upon the triumph of our arms, 
and the sweet juices of our strawberries and cream. For three days 
and nights fresh troops from the South poured into our streets with 
shouts that made the welkin ring, and the turkey bumps rise all over 
the flesh of our people. We felt that Rome was safe — secure against 
the assault ot the world, the flesh and the devil, which last individual 
is supposed to be that horde of foul invaders who are seeking to flank 
us out of both bread and existence. 

But alas for human hopes! Man that is born of woman (and there 
is no other sort that I know of) has but a few days that is not full of 
trouble. Although the troops did shout ; although their brass band 
music swelled upon the gale ; although the turkey bumps rose as the 
welkin rung ; although the commanding general assured us that Rome 
was to be held at every hazard, and that on to-morrow the big battle was 
to be fought, and the foul invaders hurled all howling and bleeding 
to the shores of the Ohio, yet it transpired somehow that on Tuesday 
night the military evacuation of our city was peremptorily ordered. 
No note of warning — no whisper of alarm — no hint of the morrow 
came from the muzzled lips of him who had lifted our hopes so high. 
Calmly and coolly we smoked our killikinick, and surveyed the 
embarkation of troops, construing it to be some grand manoeuvre of 
military strategy. About ten o'clock we retired to rest, to dream of 
to-morrow's victory. Sleep soon overpowered us like the fog that 
covered the earth, but nary bright dream had come, nary vision of free- 
dom and glory. On the contrary, our rest was uneasy — straw^berries 
and cream seemed to be holding secession meetings w^ithin our corporate 
limits, when suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, a friend aroused us 
from our slumber and put a new phase upon the "situation." General 
Johnston was retreating, and the foul invaders were to pollute our 
sacred soil the next morning. Then came the tug ot war. With hot 
and feverish haste we started out in search of transportation, but nary 
transport could be had. Time-honored friendship, past favors shown, 
everlasting gratitude, numerous small and lovely children. Confederate 
currency, new issues, bank bills, black bottles, and all influences 



The Farm and The FiREsroE. 33 

were urged and used to secure a corner in a car but nary corner — too 
late — too late — the pressure for time was fearful and tremendous — 
the steady clock moved on — no Joshua about to lengthen out the 
night, no rolling stock, no steer, no mule. With reluctant and hasty 
steps, we prepared to make good our exit by that overland line which 
railroads do not control, nor A. Q. Ms impress. 

With our 'families and a little clothing, we crossed the Etowah bridge 
about the break of day on Wednesday, the 17th of May, 1864, 
exactly a year and two weeks from the time when General Forrest 
marched in triumph through our streets. By and by the bright rays 
of the morning sun dispersed the heavy fog, which like a pall of 
death had overspread all nature. Then were exhibited to our afflicted 
gaze a highway crowded with wagons and teams, cattle and hogs, 
niggers and dogs, women and children, all moving in disheveled haste 
to parts unknown. Mules were braying, cattle were lowing, hogs 
were squealing, sheep w^ere blating, children were crying, wagoners 
were cursing, whips were popping, and horses stalling, but still the 
grand caravan moved on. Everybody was continually looking 
behind, and driving before — everybody wanted to know everything, 
and nobody knew anything. Ten thousand wild rumors filled the cir- 
cumambient air. The everlasting cavalry was there, and as they dashed 
to and fro, gave false alarms of the enemy being in hot pursuit. 

About this most critical juncture of affairs, some philanthropic 
friend passed by with the welcome news that the bridge was burnt, 
and the danger all over. Then ceased the panic ; then came the peace- 
ful calm of heroes after the strife of war is over — then exclaimed 
Frank Ralls, my demoralized friend, "Thank the good Lord for that. 
Bill, let's return thanks and stop and rest — boys let me get out and lie 
down. I'm as humble as a dead nigger — I tell you the truth — I sung 
the long metre doxology as I crossed the Etowah bridge, and I expected 
to be a dead man in fifteen minutes. Be thankful, fellows, let's all 
be thankful — the bridge is burnt, and the river is three miles deep. 
Good sakes, do you reckon those Yankees can swim ? Get up, boys 
— let's drive ahead and keep moving — I tell you there's no accounting 
for anything with blue clothes on these days — ding'd if I ain't afraid 
of a blue-tailed fly." 

With a most distressing flow of language, he continued his rhapsody 
of random remarks. 



34 The Farm and The Fireside. 

Then there was that trurap of good fellows, Big John — as clever as 
he is fat, and as fat as old Falstaff — with inde/aiigable diligence he had 
secured, as a last resort, a one-horse steer spring w^agon, with a low, 
flat body sitting on two rickety springs. Being mounted thereon, he 
was urging a more speedy locomotion by laying on to the carcass of 
the poor old steer with a thrash-pole ten feet long. Having stopped 
at a house, he procured a two-inch auger, and boring a hole through 
the dashboard, pulled the steer's tail through and tied up the end in a 
knot. *' My running gear is weak," said he, ''but I don't intend to 
be stuck in the mud. If the body holds good, and the steer don't 
pull out his tail, why, Bill, I am safe." "My friend," said I, "will 
you please to inform me what port you are bound for, and when you 
expect to reach it?" "No port at all, Bill," said he, "I am going 
dead strait to the big Stone Mountain. I am going to get on the top 
and roll rocks down upon all mankind. I now forewarn every living 
thing not to come there until this everlasting foolishness is over." He 
was then but three miles from town, and had been traveling the live- 
long night. Ah, my big friend, thought I, when wilt thou arrive at 
thy journey's end ? In the language of Patrick Henry, wdll it be the 
next week or the next year? Oh, that I could write a poem, I would 
embalm thy honest face in epic verse. But I was in a right smart 
hurry myself, and only had time to drop his memory a passing rhyme. 

Farewell, Big John, Farewell ! 

'Twas painful to my heart 
•To see thy chances of escape. 
Was that old steer and cart. 

Methinks I see thee now, 

"With axletrees all brojve, 
And wheels with nary hub at all. 

And hubs with nary spoke. 

But though the mud is deep, 

Thy wits will never fail; 
That faithful steer will pull thee out. 

If he don't pull out his tail. 

Mr. Editor, under such variegated scenes we reported progress, 
and in course of time arrived under the shadow of thy city's wings, 
abounding in gratitude and joy. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 37 

With sweet and patient sadness, the tender hearts of our wives and 
<daughters beat mournfully as we moved along. Often, alas, how often 
was the tear seen swimming in the eye, and the lips quivering with 
emotion, as memory lingered around deserted homes, and thoughts 
dwelt upon past enjoyments and future desolation. We plucked the 
wild flowers as we passed, sang songs of merriment, exchanged our wit 
with children — smothering, by every means, the sorrow of our fate. 
These things, together with the comic events that occurred by the way, 
were the safety-valves that saved the poor heart from bursting. But 
for these our heads would have been fountains and our hearts a river 
of tears. Oh, if some kind friend would set our retreat to music, it 
would be greatly appreciated indeed. It should be a plaintiff tune, 
interspersed with occasional comic notes, and frequent fuges scattered 
promiscuously along. 

Our retreat was conducted in excellent good order, after the bridge 
was burnt. If there was any straggling at all, they straggled ahead. 
It would have delighted General Johnston to have seen the alacrity of 
our movements. 

But I must close this melancholy narrative, and hasten to subscribe 
myself Your runagee. Bill Arp. 

P. S. — Tip is still faithful unto the end. He says the old turkey 
we left behind has been setting for fourteen weeks, and the fowl 
invaders are welcome to her. Furthermore, that he threw a dead cat 
into the well, and they are welcome to that. B. A. 



HIS LATE TRIALS AND ADVENTURES. 



Some frog-eating Frenchman has written a book, and called it 
*' Lee's Miserables," or some other such name, which I suppose con- 
tains the misfortunes of poor refugees in the wake of the Virginny 
army. General Hood had also got a few miserables in the suburbs of 
his fighting-ground, and if any man given to romance would like a fit 
subject for a weeping narrative, we are now ready to furnish the 
mournful material. 

As the Yankees remarked at Bull Run, " these are the times that 
try men's soles," and I suppose my interesting family is now prepared 



38 The Fakm and The Fieeside. 

to show stone bruises and blisters with anybody. It is a long story, 
Mr. Editor, and cannot possibly be embraced in a single column of 
your wandering newspaper; but I will condense it as briefly as possi- 
ble, smoothing over the most affecting parts, so as not to occasion too 
great a diffusion of sympathetic tears. 

After our hasty flight from the eternal city, we became converted 
over to the doctrine of squatter sovereignty, and pitched our tents in 
the piney woods. Afar off in those fields of illimitable space, we 
roamed through the abstruse regions of the philosophic world. There 
no unfriendly soldier was perusing around and asking for papers. 
There the melancholy mind was soothed. There the lonely runagee 
could contemplate the san^y roads, the wire-grass woods, and the mil- 
lions of majestic pines that stood like ten-pins in an alley, awaiting 
some huge cannon-ball to come along and knock 'em down. The 
mountain scenery in this romantic country was grand, gloomy and 
peculiar, consisting in numberless gopher-hills, spewed up in promis- 
cuous beauty as far as the eye could reach. All around us the 
swamp frogs were warbling their musical notes. All above us the 
pines were sighing and singing their mournful tunes. Dame Nature 
has spread herself there in showing her lavish hand, and wasting tim- 
ber along those endless glades. Truly, we were treading on classic 
ground, for we pitched our tents in a blackberry patch, and morning, 
noon and night, luxuriated in peace upon the delicious fruit which 
everywhere adorned the sandy earth. 

But those piney woods to which we fled, did not, by any means, 
agree with our ideas of future comfDrt. After it had rained some 
forty days and forty nights without a recess, the corn crop had pretty 
well died out, and General Starvation seemed about to assume com- 
mand of the region round about. 

We felt constrained to depart from those coasts, and seek an 
Egypt somewhere in a rounder and more rolling country. So we 
took the train for Atlanta and designed to take roundance from there 
and find a retreat away up the Chattahoochee river where Mrs. Arp's 
father lived. 

All along the line, at every station, pretty women get on and get 
off. When they leave, us, an affectionate man like myself uncon- 
sciously whispers, ** Depart in peace, ye treasures of delight." Casting- 
a longing, lingering look behind, I exclaimed in the beautiful language 



The Farm and The Fikeside. 39 

of Mr. Shakespeare, 'I have thee not, but yet I see thee still/ Fare- 
well, sweet darlings, until I come again. But woman is sometimes 
very variegated and peculiar in the way she does. I am just reminded 
how, on a late occasion, I found but one vacant seat in the car after I 
located my numerous and interesting family. A luxurious lady, with 
some aggravating curls, had occupied nearly all of a seat spreading 
herself like a setting-hen, all over the velvet cushion. "Madam, can 
I share this seat with you?" said I. "Certainly, sir," and she closed 
in her skirts some several inches. In a short space of time she became 
affected with drowsiness. Her neck became as limber as a greasy rag. 
Leaning on my shoulder, she seemed wonderfully affectionate, as her 
head kept bobbing around, and I felt very peculiar at such times as 
she would subside into my palpitating bosom. About this critical 
juncture, I ventured to turn my astonished gaze towards Mrs. Arp, 
and seeing that she was waiting for some remark, I observed, "Hadn't 
I better remove my seat ? Do vou think I can endure the like of 
this?" 

"I do not, William," said she. "You had better stand up awhile, 
and when you get tired some of the children will relieve you." The 
glance of her eye and the manner in which she spoke brought me up 
standing, and gave me a correct view of the situation. Immediately 
I assumed a perpendicular attitude, and the curly head was left with- 
out a prop. I assure you, Mr. Editor, a man's wife is the best judge 
of such peculiar things; and as for me, I am always governed by it. 

We arrived in Atlanta about the time the first big shells com- 
menced scattering their unfeeling contents among the suburbs of that 
devoted city. Then came the big panics; then shrieked the man-eater; 
then howled the wild hyena among the hills of Babylon. 

All sorts of people seemed moving in all sorts of ways, with an 
accelerated motion. They gained ground on their shadows as they 
leaned forward on the run, and their legs grew longer at every step. 
With me it was the second ringing of the first bell. I had sorter got 
used to the thing, and set myself down to take observations. ' ' How 
many miles to Milybright?" said I. But no response came, for their 
legs were as long as light, and every bursting shell was an old witch 
on the road. Cars was the all in all. Depots were the center of 
space, converging lines from every point of the compass made tracks 
to the ofhces of railroad superintendents. These functionaries very 



40 The Farm and The Fireside. 

prudently vamoosed the ranch to avoid their too numerous friends, 
leaving positive orders to their subordinates. The passenger depot 
was thronged with anxious seekers of transportation. "Won't you 
let these boxes go as baggage?" *'No, madam, it is impossible." Just 
then somebody's family trunk as big as a nitre bureau was shoved in, 
and the poor woman got desperate. *'A11 I've got ain't as heavy as 
that," said she; "I am a poor widow, and my husband was killed in 
the army. I've got five children, and three of them cutting teeth, 
and my things have got to go." We took up her boxes and shoved 
them in. Another good woman asked very anxiously for the Macon 
train. "There it is, madam," said I. She shook her head mourn- 
fully and remarked, "You are mistaken, sir, don't you see the engine 
is headed right up the State road, towards the Yankees? I sha'nt 
take any train with the engine at that end of it. No, sir, that ain't 
the Macon train." Everywhere was hurrying to and fro at a lively 
tune. "What's to-day, nigger," said a female darkey, with a hoop- 
skirt on her arm. * ' 'Taint no day, honey, dat eber I seed. Yester- 
day was Sunday, and I recokon to-day is Runday from de way de 
white folks are movin* about. Yah, yah; ain't afeered of Yankees 
myself, but dem sizzin bum-shells kills a nigger quicker dan you can 
lick your tongue out. Gwine to getaway from here — I is." 

I went into a doctor's shop, and found my friend packing up his 
vials and poisons and copiva and such like. Various excited individuals 
came in, looked at a big map on the wall, and pointed out the roads to 
McDonough and Eatonton and Jasper, and soon their proposed lines 
of travel were easily and greasily visible from the impression of their 
perspiring fingers. An old skeleton, with but one leg, was swinging 
from the ceiling looking like a mournful emblem of the fate of the 
troubled city. "You are going to leave him to stand guard, doctor?" 
said I. "I suppose I will," said he; "got no transportation for him." 
"Take the screw out of his skull," said I, "and give him a crutch, 
maybe he will travel; all flesh is moving and I think the bones will 
catch the contagion soon." 

A few doors further, and a venerable auctioneer was surveying the 
rushing, running crowd, and every now and then he would raise his 
arm with a seesaw motion and exclaim, "Going — going — gone! Who's 
the bidder?" "Old Daddy Time," said I, "he'll get them all before 
long." The door of an old friend's residence swung open to my gaze, 



The Farm and The Fireside. 41 

and I walked in. Various gentlemen of my acquaintance were dis- 
cussing their evidences of propriety over a jug of departing spirits. 
"I believe I'll unpack," said one, * 'dinged if Fm afraid of a blue- 
tailed fly; Fm going to sit down and be easy. ''In a horn," said I. 
Just then a sizzing, singing, crazy shell sung a short-metre hymn right 
over the house. "Jake, has the dray come?" he said, bouncing to his 
feet: "confound that dray — blame my skin if Fll ever get a dray to 
move these things — boys, let's take another drink." After which, 
another friend remarked, "Boys, lets all stay; durned if it don't look 
cowardly to run ! Boys, here's to — who shall we drink to?" "Here's 
to Cassabianca," said I. "Good, good," they all shouted. "Here's to 
Cabysianka. Let me speak it for you, boys," said our host; "I've 
spoken it a thousand times." He mounted the seat of a broken sofa, 
and spreading himself, declaimed : 

" The boy stood on the burning deck, 
When all had fled but him." 

"That's me," said one. "It's me exactly," said another. "Fm 
Cabysianka myself — dog my cat if I don't be the last one to leave this 
ship." Another shell sizzed, and bursted a few yards off, "Boys let's 
take another drink and leave the town — dod rot the Yankees." "Here's 
to — the — the 'Last of the Mohikans,'" said I. "Exactly — that's so. 
Fm him myself. I'm the mast of the Lohikens; durned if I'll leave 

these diggins as long as — as long as " "As the State road," said 

I, "which is now about four inches and a half." "That's it; that's 
so," said my friends. "Here's to the State road and Dr. Brown and 
Joe Phillips, as long as four inches and a half." 

By and by the shells fell as thick as Governor Brown's proclama- 
tions, causing a more speedy locomotion in the excited throng who 
hurried by the door, but my friends inside had passed the Rubicon, 
and one by one retired to dream of Bozarris and his Suliote band. 
Vacant rooms and long corridors echoed with their snores, and they 
appeared like sleeping heroes in the halls of the Montezumas. 

Contageous diseases are said to be catching and the Atlanta big 
panics brought the Atlanta folks to an active perpendicular quicker 
than all the physic ever seen in a city drug store. It certainly has 
a tendiincy to arouse the dormant energies of feeble invalids. Weak 
backs and lame legs, old chronics and rheumatics, in fact, all the 
internal diseases which honest fear of powder and ball had developed 



42 The Fakm and The Fireside. 

since the war began , were now forgotten in the general flight ; and 
the examining boards could have seen many a discharge invalidated, 
and a living, moving lie given to their certificates. 

All day and all night long the iron horses were snorting to the echoing 
breeze. Train after train of goods and chattels moved down the road, 
leaving hundreds of anxious faces waiting their return. There was 
no method in this madness. All kinds of plunder was tumbled in 
promiscuousl}^ A huge parlor mirror, some six feet by eight, all 
bound in elegant gold, with a brass buzzard spreading his wings on 
top, was set up at the end of the car and reflected a beautiful 
assortment of parlor furniture to match, such as pots, kettles, baskets, 
bags, barrels, kegs, bacon and bedsteads piled up together. Govern- 
ment officials had the preference and government officials all have 
friends. Any clever man with a charming wife or a pretty sister 
could secure a corner in more cars than one, and I will privately 
mention to you, Mr. Editor, that I have found a heap of civility on 
this account myself Indeed, I have always thought that no man is 
excusable who has not either one or the other. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 43 



CHAPTER V. 



Bill Arp Addresses Artemus Ward. 

Rome, Ga., September 1, 1865. 
Mr. Artemus Ward, Showman — 

Sir : The reason I write to you in perticler, is because you are 
about the only man I know in all "God's country," so-called. For 
some several weeks I have been wantin' to say sumthin'. For some 
several years we rebs, so-called, but now late of said country deceased, 
have been tryin' mighty hard to do somethin'. We didn't quite do it, 
and now it's very jmiuful, I assure you, to dry up all of a sudden, 
and make out like we wasn't there. 

My friend, I want to say somethin'. I suppose there is no law 
agin thinkin', but thinkin' don't help me. It don't let down my ther- 
mometer. I must explode myself generally so as to feel better. You 
see, I'm tryin' to harmonize. I'm tryin' to soften down my feelin's. 
Fm endeavoring to subjugate myself to the level of surroundin' cir- 
cumstances, so-called. But I can't do it until I am allowed to say 
somethin'. I want to quarrel with somebody and then make friends. 
I ain't no giant-killer. I ain't no Norwegian bar. I ain't no boar- 
constrickter, but I'll be hornswaggled if the talkin' and writin' and 
slanderin' has got to be all done on one side any longer. Sum of 
your folks have got to dry up or turn our folks loose. It's a blamed 
outrage, so-called. Ain't you editors got nothin' else to do but peck at 
us, and squib at us, and crow over us ? Is every man what can write 
a paragraph to consider us bars in a cage, and be always a-jobbin' at 
us to hear us growl ? Now, you see, my friend, that's w^hat's dishar- 
monious, and do you jest tell 'em, one and all, e pluribus unum, so- 
called, that if they don't stop it at once or turn us loose to say what 
we please, why we rebs, so-called, have unannnously and jointly and 
severally resolved to — to — to — think very hard of it — if not harder. 

That's the way to talk it. I ain't agoin' to commit myself. I know 
when to puL on the breaks. I ain't goin' to say all I think. Nary 
time. No, sir. But I'll jest tell you, Artemus, and you may tell it 



44 The Farm and The Fireside. 

to your show. If we ain't allowed to express our sentiments, we can 
take it out in hatin'; and hatin' runs heavy in my family, sure. I 
hated a man once so bad that all the hair cum off my head, and the 
man drowned himself in a hog- waller that night. I could do it agin, 
but you see I'm tryin' to harmonize, to acquiess, to becum calm and 
screen. 

Now, I suppose that, poetically speakin', 
" In Dixie's fall, 
We sinned all." ♦ 

But talkin' the way I see it, a big feller and a little feller, so-called, 
got into a fite, and they font and fout a long time, and everybody alt 
'round kept hollerin', ''hands off," but helpin' the big feller, until 
finally the little feller caved in and hollered enuf. He made a bully 
fit'-., I tell you. Well, what did the big feller do ? Take him by the 
hand and help him up, and brush the dirt off his clothes? Nary 
time ! No, sur ! But he kicked him arter he w^as down, and throwed 
mud on him, and drugged him about and rubbed sand in his eyes, and 
now he's gwine about huntin' up his poor little property. Wants to 
confiscate it, so-called. Blame my jacket if it ain't enuf to make 
your head swim. 

But Fm a good Union man, so-called. I ain't agwine to fight no 
more. J shan't vote for tl next war. /ain't no gurrilla. I've done 
tuk the oaiU, and I'm gwine to keep it, but as for my bein' subjugated, 
and humilyated, and amalgamated, and enervated, as Mr. Chase says, 
it ain't so — nary time. I ain't ashamed of nuthin' neither — ain't 
repentin' — ain't axin' for no one-horse, short-winded pardon. Nobody 
needn't be playin' priest around me. I ain't got no twenty thousand 
dollars. Wish I had ; I'd give it to these poor widders and orfins. 
I'd fatten my own numerous and interestin' offspring in about two 
minutes and a half. They shouldn't eat roots and drink branch-water 
no longer. Poor unfortunate things! to cum into this subloonary 
world at sich a time. There's four or five of them that never saw a 
sirkis or a monkey-show — never had a pocket-knife, nor a piece of 
chees, nor a reesin. There's Bull Run Arp, and Harper's Ferry Arp, 
and Chicahominy Arp, that never saw the pikters in a spellin' book. 
I tell you, my friend, we are the poorest people on the face of the 
earth — but we are poor and proud. We made a bully fite, and the 
whole American nation ought to feel proud of it. It shows what 



The Farm and The FiREsroE. 45 

Americans can do when they think they are imposed upon. Didn't 
our four fathers fight, bleed and die about a little tax on tea, when 
not one in a thousand drunk it ? Bekaus they succeeded, wasn't it 
glory? But if they hadn't, I suppose it would have been treason, 
and they would have been bowin' and scrapin' round King George for 
pardon. So it goes, Artemus, and to my mind, if the whole thing 
was stewed down it would make about half a pint of humbug. We 
had good men, great men. Christian men, who thought we was right, 
and many of them have gone to the undiscovered country, and have 
got a pardon as is a pardon. When I die I am mighty willing to risk 
myself under the shadow of their wings, whether the climate be hot 
or cold. So mote it be. 

Well, maybe I've said enough. But I don't feel easy yet. I'm a 
good Union man, certain and sure. I've had my breeches died- blue, 
and I've bot a blue bucket, and I very often feel blue and about t\vice 
in a while I go to the doggery and git bhie^ and then I look up at the 
blue serulean heavens and sing the melancholy chorus of the Blue- 
tailed Fly. I'm doin' my durndest to harmonize, and think I could 
succeed if it wasn't for sum things. 

I don't want much. I ain't ambitious, as I used to was. You all 
have got your shows and monkeys and sircusses and brass bands and 
organs, and can play on the patrolyuna "^d the harp of a thousand 
strings, and so on, but I've only got one favor to ax y^w. I want 
enough powder to kill a big yaller stumptail dog that prowls around 
my premises at night. Pon my honor, I w^on't shoot at anything blue 
or black or mulatter. Will you send it? Are you and your folks so 
skeered of me and my folks that you won't let us have any ammunition ? 
Are the squirrels and crows and black racoons to eat up our poor 
little corn-patches? Are the wild turkeys to gobble all around with 
impunity? If a mad dog takes the hiderphoby, is the whole com- 
munity to run itself to death to get out of the way? I golly! it 
looks like your people had all tpok the rebelfoby for good, and was 
never gwine to get over it. See here, my friend, you must send me 
a little powder and a ticket to your show, and me and you will har- 
monize sertin. 

With these few remarks I think I feel better, and I hope I han't 
made nobody fitin' mad, for I'm not on that line at this time. 

I am truly your friend, all present or accounted for. 



46 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER VI. 



The Falling Leaves. 

The blackgiim leaves are turning red, 

The sycamores are turning yellow, 
The farmer feels serene and glad. 

For everything is ripe and mellow. 

The nights are getting cool, and the days are getting shorter. The 
fodder is all pulled and safely stowed away in the barn loft. 

If facts are stubborn things, then pulling fodder in the low grounds 
is a fact. There ain't a redeeming circumstance about it. Its work- 
ing on a continual strain to pull it, and there's no fun in tyeing it up, 
and I reckon that the toting of it two or three hundred yards to the 
wagon road, ten bundles at a time, stepping like a blind horse over 
corn-stalks bent down, and tripping up in tangled morning glories, 
and every now and then losmg your holt and having to load up again, 
and all the time smothered up so that you can't see where you are 
going, and not a breath of refreshmg air to cool you, is about the 
meanest business I have ever experienced. It's all fact — solemn fact 
— no romance, no poetry, no joke. But that ain't all of it. Its got 
to be hauled and then thrown up m the barn loft and stacked away, 
and if there's any hotter place to work in than a barn loft, I don't 
know it, and I've been considerin' that after its all done you can't sell 
it for more than a dollar a hundred, and right now, m my present 
frame of mind, if I had any to sell and some fellow without any soul 
was to offer me 90 cents I should hit him if it was the last lick I ever 
struck. They may jew me on corn and wheat and cotton and potatoes, 
but I won't be jewed on my fodder by nobody. It does seem to me 
that all this sort of work ought to be done by machinery or not to be 
done at all. 

I've been diggin' my taters. Me and the children have been looking 
forward to this interesting side-show to the farming busmess with 
pleasant anticipations. I always did love to follow after the plow 



» 






%KS_1 ...^^T^tl^i^l v^ 




The Farm and The Fireside. 49 

and see 'em roll out and tumble up, and pick up the big ones 
and feel the v>^eight of them, but I didn't calculate on having to make 
a full hand. For two whole days my boys pressed me into service, 
and I got awful tired of picking up and toting off in the baskets to the 
end of the rows where the vines would be handy to cover them up. 
My farmer boy stripped the vines with a horse-rake of his own inven- 
tion, and it done it better and cleaner than I ever saw done with a 
plow. Then he run a one-horse twister on each side, and me and the 
little chaps kept up pretty well, and when he split open the middles 
and throws 'em up right and left we all had to move up lively, I tell 
you. My legs are all right, but I don't believe my back is as limber 
as it used to be. I got awful tired, and the plow business seemed to 
go 'long so smooth and easy I ventured to exchange work for awhile. 
I could run round the rows pretty well, but when I come to splitting 
open the middles the plagued thing seemed to get cranky, and would 
run out and run in, first on one side and then on the other, and the 
furrows I left behind looked like the track of a crazy snake. I used 
to could plow, but it looks like I have lost the lick. My boys ivas a-lookin^ 
at me and smotherin' their fun, and about the time I was willin' to cpait 
I observed Mrs. Arp and the girls a-perusin' me through the crack of 
the fence. They was mighty nigh dead from laughing, which I didn't 
enjoy, but tne sympathizin' woman suddenly composed herself and 
remarked that I was workin' too hard considerin' my age and infirmity. 
" You are all over in a sweat of perspiration," said she, "and I thought 
you had a touch of St. Vitus dance, as you was following that plow. 
Let the boys do it, and come to the house and rest." But I wouldent. 
I'm not going to give it up yet by no means. I'm not going to get 
old before she does — nary time. So I stuck to the patch until the job 
was done and I got the sticky turpentine juice that milks out of the 
yams all over my hands, and the stain died my fingers an Injun red, 
and it wouldn't wash off nor scour off, but it's all honest, and is a sign 
of work. I tell you what, hard work and the sweat of the face is the 
curse of that original sin put on us, but it was tempered down in 
mercy, and there is a comfort that follows it that folks who don't try 
it don't know anything about. The law of compensation comes into 
everything in this life, and the poor can be about as happy as the rich, 
if they have a mind to, and don't spend their time in grumblin' and 
complainin' about their hard lot in this subloonary life. 



50 Tke Farm and The Fireside. 

Hard work is tlie best antidote for grumbling. It won't do to stop. 
If I can't plow I can do something else; I can tote water for a rest. 

Grease the wagon, oil the machinery, lubricate the energies with a 
little recreation. Don't run in the old ruts too long. Dig a while 
and then try another tool. My good old father used to say, * ' Wil- 
liam, when you get tired hoeing potatoes you may weed the onions for 
a rest." Chop wood, shell corn, go to mill, and it won't hurt to take 
a little tramp after squirrels and ducks and partridges or pursue the 
social 'possum on a moonlight night. Variety is the spice of life. It 
helps a man in body and mind, but the poor women can't do such 
things to any great extent — tho' my girls do sometimes go 'possum 
huntin' with me and the boys and blow the melodious cows' horns and 
scream at a booger in every bush. One day the boys said it was too 
wet to plow and they were going down on the creek to hunt rabbits, 
so I concluded to go along and tote the game. Mrs. Arp said she 
knew we wouldn't kill anything, and we asked her if she would cook 
all we brought home, and she said, " Yes, and dress it, too." About 
the time we got started the two little chaps came up and begged 
me so sweetly to let them go I couldn't refuse, and so there were six 
of us in all, and two guns and two dogs, and in about an hour we 
had jumped six rabbits, and killed five of them, and they were get- 
ting awful heavy, when suddenly one of the boys looked up in an elm 
tree that was in the middle of a canebrake and said, ' ' I thought 
them things up tnere were squirrels' nests, but I do believe I saw one 
of 'em move." We all stopped and looked, and sure enuf it did 
move, and the other one moved and we knew they were coons. I 
never saw boys get excited so quick. They called the dogs and made 
for the canebrake. The creek was to cross and nary log in sight, so 
they just waded through and surrounded the tree and held the dogs 
fast while one of the boys got ready to fire. By this time I was get- 
ting ready to be a boy again myself, and I hollered to them to wait, 
and I pulled the little chaps through the cane till I found a log and 
got them across, and was soon on the battle-ground. Bang went a 
gun and dow^n came a wounded coon, the biggest old fellow I ever 
saw, and I never saw such a fight in my life. He wasn't hurt much 
with the small shot and he did fight and growl and screech most 
amazin'. First ^ne dog and then the other backed out with a howl 
and then set in on him again, until finally old Zip surrendered and 



The Farm and The Fireside. 51 

gave up the ghost. Bang went another gun and the other coon let 
go and fell into a for-k, and there he lay for dead for about fifteen 
minutes, when one of the boys said he was going to have him anyhow. 
So he climbed the tree, and when he had got about fifty feet up the 
coon straightened up in the fork and looked savagely at him and gave 
a growl. I wish you could have seen that boy slide. He came down 
that tree like a fireman comes down a scaling ladder. He left his hat 
and right smart of his breeches on the bark and grapevines. Well, 
of course they shot him again, and that tumbled him, and then we 
had another fight, and the boys say they never had as much fun, and 
they feel sorry for your town boys who don't have any sport and are 
penned up within brick walls and the best they can do is to waste a 
few dollars on a French actress, and not know a word she said, and 
then go home and say, bully for Sara. Well, I shouldered the big- 
gest coon, and I think he weighed about twenty pounds when we 
started and about forty when I got home, and I laid him down sud- 
denly in Mrs. Arp's lap and said, "Skin him and cook him, if you 
please ?" I oughtent to have done that. Jit was premature, and not 
altogether calculated to promote our conjugal felicity. Mrs. Arp is a 
stately, deliberate woman, but I think she got up a little quicker than 
I had ever observed her. If I were to kill a thousand coons I 
wouldn't try that little joke again. It didn't pay. 

But we had lots ot fun out of the coons, and the time spent in the 
hunt was not w^asted, for the sport renewed our energies and made us 
feel all the more like work. 

And so we go, mixing in with our daily labor any fun that comes 
to hand. 



52 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER VII. 



ADVENTURES ON THE FARM. 

Variety is the spice of life; and if a man can get any fun out of 
trouble he had better do it. Farming is an ever-changing employ- 
ment. There is something new turns up nearly every day, something 
unexpected and out of the general run. It aint so with storekeep- 
ers, nor carpentering, nor any mechanical business, for with those 
pursuits one day is pretty much like another, and that is why I like 
farming. There is more play for a man's ingenuity and contrivance 
and more gratification in his success. If a farmer contrives a good 
gate or a good stall for the stables, or makes a good wagon tongue, or 
a single-tree, or plow stock, he is proud of his labors and thinks more 
of himself. 

I have been mighty busy of late fixing up fences. Fences are a 
big thing in these parts, and if a man aint careful it will take about 
half he makes on his farm to keep 'em mule high and bull strong and 
pig tight. I had about a mile to build this spring, and timber was 
too scarce to make it all of rails, so I went to work and cut down a 
lot of pines for stock ; and borrowed a carrylog and began to haul 'em 
to the saw mill. The pines were on the side of a rocky ridge, and 
the steers were sorter bull-headed and took all sorts of roads to get 
down, and run over saplings, and against stumps, and my old darkey 
couldn't do much with 'em, and the iron dogs would come out of the 
logs when the hind end rolled over a rock, and the log would stop 
and the steers go on, and it took all hands to head 'em with sticks and 
thrash poles and make 'em turn around and go back and straddle the 
log again — we had to swing one big log five times before we got down 
to the road — and it was "gee Dick," and "haw Tom," and "come 
back here," and "whar you gwine" a hundred times, and the key come 
out of the bow, and the bow dropped down, and old Tom thought he 
was loose and started for home, and we had a time of it all around. 
After awhile I noticed that the dogs were too straight and didn't 




5#^' .^./ 






Bill Tries the Carry-Log. 



I 



The Farm and The Fireside. 55 



swell around the log as tliey ought to, so I sent 'em to the shop and 
bent 'em, and after that we could drive 'em in deeper, and we had no 
more trouble on that line. When we got all the stocks down to the 
big road, we began to haul 'em to the mill, and there was a right 
smart hill to go up, which was tne only hill on the way. Old Tom is 
a mean old steer. He is just like some folks, he has fits of pulling 
and fits of not pulling and when he does pull he wants to pull as hard 
as he can. He took a notion that the hill was too much for him, so 
he wouldn't go worth a cent; we hawd him, and gee'd him and 
whijDped him, and hollered at him and twisted his tail, but he got 
sullen and got down on his knees and played off, and w^e fooled away 
half a day without moving a stock. Then I sent after the mules and 
a double tree, and fifth chain, and hitched the mules in front and all 
hands hollered "get up there," and I cracked the long whip and old 
Tom come down to his work, for he saw he had help, and the w^ay we 
jerked those logs up the hill was a cortion. We had no more trouble 
after that, until the time to go home, and I concluded a ride on the 
carrylog tongue would suit me pretty well, for Ralph, my fourteen 
year old boy, said it was good riding, and so I mounted on the little 
plank seat, and took the lines and the whip and give the words of 
command, and suddenly old Tom took a notion to run away for 
amusement. It was down a gentle grade for a quarter of a mile, and 
there were deep little ruts in the road, and pine roots crossing it ever 
and anon and some turnouts around the bad places, and so I began 
to pull on the lines and holler, "wo, wo, wo, I tell you; wo Tom, wo 
Dick," but they paid no more attention to me than if I was a big hog 
in the road. They just went a kiting, and didn't miss a big stump 
half an inch, and the ruts and the roots bumped me up and down 
like a churn dasher. I never was scared so bad in my life. The 
darkey and Ralph come a running as fast as they could to get ahead 
of the brutes, and that made 'em worse. I didn't dare to jump ofi* for 
fear the big wheels would get me, and then there was those con- 
founded iron dogs with their big hooks hanging down and I expected 
every minute to be jolted off, and have 'em catch me in the slack of 
my pants, or somewhere else, and drag me home a mangled and life- 
less carcass. I dropped the long whip and let the lines go, when 
suddenly a turn in the road brought the infernal beasts right square 
up against a wagon that was coming, and they stopped. I left that 



56 The Farm and The Fireside. 

tongue before you could say Jack Robinson, and sat down on a log to 
be thankful. 

Driving steers is not my forte, and I shall hereafter let all such 
foolishness alone. The folks have not got done laughing at me yet. 
Carl drew a picture on his slate of a carrylog and steers and tw^o big 
hooks a hanging down, and a man hugging the tongue, and when I 
came into the room Jesse was a cackling and the girls a giggling, and 
Mrs. Arp laughing like she had found a circus; but I can't see any 
more fun in it than a last year's bird's nest. 

I am building a fence now, a good fence, and a cheap fence. We 
got one hundred chestnut posts, six feet long, in one day, and hauled 
'em home. I put 'em twenty-two inches in the ground and twelve feet 
apart; my plank is twelve feet long. The base is ten inches wide, 
and the next three six inches wide, and then comes the barbed wire 
two inches below the top of the post, and this makes the fence just 
four feet high. There is a strip of six-inch plank nailed up and down 
in the middle of every panel, w^hich is nearly as good as if there was 
a post in the middle. This strip keeps the plank in line and 
keeps them from w^arping. The nails should not be driven in straight, 
but a little slanting to make 'em hold better. I built a half mile of 
this kind of fence two years ago, and can find no fault with it. The 
wind can't blow it down, and stock never try to jump it. My lum- 
ber cost me five dollars a thousand for sawing; my wire cost me half 
a cent a foot, and that makes the fence cost twenty-eight cents a rod 
besides my labor, and a rail fence can't be built much cheaper, con- 
sidering the value of timber. Fences are generally made too high 
and too top-heavy, and the wind rocks 'em about, and the posts get 
loose, and the rain drips in and rots 'em. Gates are most always made 
too heavy — a gate should be made wide, say nine feet, and very light. 
Use bolts instead of nails at the corner and in the middle of the brace. 
Don't let the gate swing when it is shut. Let the bottom of the latch 
post rest on a piece of scantling, bevel the scantling a little and let 
the gate slide upon it as it shuts. An iron roller put in like one is 
put in a bed-post is a good thing, for then the gate will roll up instead 
of slide up. A gate is open very little compared with the time it is 
shut, and if it rests on something when shut it will never swag when 
open. A gate should be no higher than the fence, but I make my 
farm gates w^ith the hinge post three feet higher, and run a brace across 



The if arm and The Fireside. 57 

that one from the other two corners. Pack post well at the bottom, 
•especially on the front and back. The plank will hold 'em the other 
way. I think I ^now a right smart about gates and about fencing, 
but I don't know how to drive steers, and I don't want to learn. 



58 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



Smoking the Pipe of Peace. 



REFLECTIONS AND DEDUCTIONS BUGS AND THINGS — THE RISE AND 

FALL OF PRESIDENTS AND PREACHERS A HIGH-MINDED MULE A 

LITTLE POLITICAL DISCOURSE SOLDIERS OF THE CAMP AND SOLDIERS 

OF THE CROSS. 

I love to meet a nabor and hear him say, "how's craps?" I 
continue to like farmin'. I like it better and better, except that the 
wheat is sumwhat doubtful about making a crop. A little long bug 
with a tail at both ends has got in the joints and sucked the sap out, 
and it's fallin' down in patches. Looks like there is always somthin' 
preyin on somthin', and nothin' is safe from disaster in this subloonary 
world. Flies and bugs and rust prey on (he green w^heat. AVeevils 
eat it up when it's cut and put away. Rats eat the corn — moles eat the 
gubbers — hawks eat the chickens — the minks killed three of our ducks 
in one night — cholera kills the hogs — and the other night one of my 
nabor's mules cum along with the blind staggers and fell up a pair of 
seven steps right into my front gate and died without kickin'. Then 
there is briars and nettles and tread safts and smartsweed and poison 
oak and Spanish needles and cuckle burrs and dog fennel and snakes, 
that's always in the way on a farm and must be looked after keerfuUy, 
especially snakes, which are my eternal horror, and I shall always 
believe are sum kin to the devil himself. I can't tolerate such long 
insects. But we farmers hav to take the bad with the good, and there 
is more good than bad with me up to the present time. 

I wonder if Harris ever saw a pack saddle. Well, its as pretty as a 
rainbow, just like mgst all of the devil's contrivances, and when you 
crowd one of 'em on a fodderblade you'd think thatfortyyaller jackets 
had stung you all in a bunch and with malice aforethought. And 
there's the devil's race horse which plies around about this time and, 
Uncle Isam says, chaws tobakker like a gentleman and if he spit in 



The Farm and The Fireside. 59 

your eyes you'd go blind in a half a second. And one day he showed 
me the devil's darning needle which mends up the old fellow's stockins, 
and the devil's snuff box which explodes when you mash it, and one 
ounce of the stuff inside will kill a sound mule before he can lay 
down. Then there's some flow-ers that he wears in his button-hole 
called the devil's shoestring and the devil in the bush. 

I like farmin'. Its an honest, quiet life, and it does me so much 
good to work and get all over in a swet of presperation. I enjoy my 
umble food and my repose, and get up every mornin' renewed and 
rejuvenated like an eagle in his flight, or words to that effect. I 
know I shall like it more and more, for we have already passed over 
the Rubycon, and are beginnin' to reap the rewards of industry. 
Spring chickens have got ripe, and the hens keep bloomin' on. Over 
200 now respond to my old 'oman's call every morning, as she totes 
around the bread tray a-singin' teheeky, teheeky, teheeky. I tell you, 
she watches those birds close for she knows the value of 'em. She 
was raised a Methodist, she was, and many a time has watched 
through the crack of the door sadly, and seen the preachers helped to 
the last gizzard in the dish. There was 54 chickens 7 ducks, 5 gos- 
lins, 12 turkeys and seven pigs, hatched out last week, and Dai^^y had 
a calf and Mollie a colt, besides. This looks like bisness, don't it? 
This is what I call successful farmin' — multiplying and replenishing 
according to Scripter. Then we have a plenty of peas and 
potatoes and other garden yerbs, which helps a poor man out, and by 
the 4th of July will have wheat bread and buiskit and blackberry 
pies, and pass a regular declaration of independence. 

I like farmin'. I like latitude and longitude. When we were 
penned up in to\\n my children couldn't have a sling-shot, or a bow 
and arrow, nor a chicken fight in the back-yard, nor sick a dog on 
another dog, nor let off a big Injun whoop, without some neighbor 
making a fuss about it. And then, again, there was a show, or a 
dance, or a bazar, or a missionary meeting most every night, and it 
did look like the children were just obleeged to go, or the world would 
come to an end. It was money, money, money, all the time, but now 
there isn't a store or a milliner shop within five miles of us, and we 
do our own work, and have learned what it costs to make a 
bushel of corn and a barrel of flour, and by the time Mrs. 
Arp has nursed and raised a lot of chickens and turkeys, she thinks so 



60 The Faem and The FmEsroE. 

much of 'em she don't want us to kill 'em, and they are a heap better 
and fatter than any we used to buy. We've got a great big fire-place 
in the family room, and can boil the coffee, or heat a kettle of water 
on the hearth if we want to, for we are not on the lookout for com- 
pany all the time like we used to be. We don't cook half as much 
as we used to, nor w^aste a whole parsel every day on the darkey, and 
we eat what is set before us, and are thankful. 

It's a wonder to me that everybody don't go to farmin'. Lawyers 
and doctors have to set about town and play checkers, and talk poli- 
tics and wait for somebody to quarrel or fight, or get sick ; clerks and 
book-keepers figure and multiply and count until they get to counting 
the stars and the flies on the ceiling, and the peas in the dish, and the 
flowers on the papering; the jeweler sits by his window all the year 
round, working on little wheels, and the mechanic strikes the same 
kind of a lick every day. These people do not belong to themselves; 
they are all penned up like convicts in a chain-gang ; they can't take 
a day nor an hour for recreation, for they are the servants of their 
employers. There is no profession that gives a man such freedom, 
such latitude, and such a variety of employment as farmin'. 

While I was ruminating this morning, a boy come along and said 
the dogs had treed something down in the bottom. So me and my 
boys shouldered the guns and an ax, and took Mrs. Arp and the 
children along to see the sport. We cut down a hollow gum tree, and 
caught a 'possum and two squirrels, and killed a rabbit on the run, 
and had a good time generally, with no loss on our side. We can 
stop work most any time to give welcome to a passing friend and have a 
little chat, and our nabors do the same by us ; but if you go into one of 
these factories or workshops, or even a printing-office, the first sign- 
board that greets you says, "Don't talk to the workmen." Sociable 
crowd, aint it? 

There's no monotony upon the farm. There's something new every 
day, and the changing work brings into action every muscle in the 
human frame. We plow and hoe, and harrow and sow, and gather it 
in at harvest-time. We look after the horses and cows, the pigs and 
sows, and the rams and the lambs, and the chickens, and the turkeys, 
and geese. We cut our own wood, and raise our own bread and meat, 
and don't have to be stingy of it like city folks. A friend, who 
visited us not long ago, wrote back from the town that his grate don't 



The Farm and The Fireside. 61 

seem bigger than the crown of his hat since he sat by our great big 
friendly fire-place. 

But they do git the joak on me sometimes, for you see, I'm farmin* 
accordin' to schedule, and it don't always make things exactly lumi- 
nous. Fur instance, it said that cotton seed was an excellent fertil- 
izer. Well, I had 'em, and as they was a clean, nice thing to handle, 
I put 'em under most everything in my garding, I was a-runnin' 
inyun sets heavy, and one mornin' went out to peruse 'em and I saw 
the straight track of a big mole under every row. He had jest 
histed 'em all up about three inches. He hadn't eat nary one, and 
thinks I to myself, he's just goin' around a-smellin' of 'em. Next 
mornin' all my sets was a settin' about six inches up in the air and 
on top of the thickest stand of cotton you ever did see. Now, if I had 
known about spilin' of 'em, as my nabors call it, before we used 'em it 
would have been more luminous. Howsoever, I knifed 'em down 
and set the inyuns back again, and nobody ain't got a finer crop. 

It's a great comfort to me to set in my piazzer these pleasant even- 
ings and look over the farm, and smoke the pipe of peace, and rumi- 
nate. Kuminate upon the rise and fall of empires and parties and 
presidents and preachers. I think when a man has passed the Rubi- 
con of life, and seen his share of trouble, smokin' is allowable, for it 
kinder reconciles him to live on a while longer, and promotes philo- 
sophic reflections. I never know^ed a high-tempered man to be fond 
of it. 

I may be mistaken, but it seems to me a little higher grade of hap- 
piness to look out upon the green fields of wheat and the leafing trees 
and the blue mountains in the distance and hear the dove cooing to 
her mate, and the whippoorwill sing a w^elcome to the night, and hunt 
flowers and bubby blossoms with the children, and make whistles for 
'em and hear 'em blow, and see 'em get after a jumpin' frog or a gar- 
ter snake, and hunt hen's nests, and paddle in the branch and get 
dirty and wet all over, and w^atch their penitent and subdued expres- 
sion when they go home, as Mrs. Arp looks at 'em with amazement 
and exclaims, " Mercy on me ; did ever a poor mother have such a 
set? Will I ever get done making clothes? Put these on right clean 
this morning, and not another clean rag in the house! Get me a 
switch, right straight; go! I will not stand it!" But she will stand 
it, and they know it — especially if I remark, "Yes, they ought to 



62 The Farm and The Fireside. 

be whipped." That saves 'em, and by the time the switch comes the 
tempest is over, and some dry xilothes are found, and if there is any 
cake in the house they get it. Blessed mother ! Fortunate children ! 
What would they do without her? Why her very scolding is music in 
their tender ears. I'm thankful that there are some things that corner 
in the domestic circle that Wall street cannot buy nor money kings 
depress. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 63 



CHAPTER IX. 



The Sounds on the Front Piazza. 

It was after midnight. About the time when deep sleep falleth 
upon man, but not upon woman, for Mrs. Arp's ears are always 
awake, it seems to me. I felt a gentle dig in my side from an elbow 
and a whispered voice said ; " William, William, don't you hear 
that ? " " What is it ? " said I. '' Somebody is in the front piazza," 
said she. " Don't you hear him rocking in the rocking chair?" And 
sure enough I did. The chair would rock awhile, and then stop, 
and then rock again. ''Is the gun loaded?" said she; ''they are 
robbers, but don't shoot, don't make a noise ; can't you peep out of the 
window? Mercy on us, what do they want to rob us for? Maybe 
they come to steal one of the children. Slip in the little room and 
see if Carl is in his bed. Don't stumble over a chair, maybe some- 
body is under the bed." The rocker took a new start and I had 
another dig in my side. "It is the wind," said I. " No, it is not," 
said she. " There is no wind, the window is up, and the curtain don't 
move. They are robbers, I tell you. Hadn't you better give them 
some money and tell them to go ? " "I havn't got any money," said 
I. " It's all gone." " Lord have mercy upon us," said she. "Wil- 
liam, get your gun and be ready." 

I gently slipped out of the bed and tiptoed to the window and cau- 
tiously peeped out, and there was the pointer puppy sitting straight up 
in my wife's rocking chair and ever and anon he would lean forward and 
backwards and put it in motion. I whispered to Mrs. Arp to come 
and see the four-legged robber, which she did, and in due time all 
was calm and serene. 

Last night there was anothf^r sensation in the back piazza, and it 
was sure enough feet this time, for they made a racket on the floor 
and moved around lively, and the elbow digs in my side came thick 
and fast ; took me a minute to get fairly awake, and after listening 
awhile I exclaimed inaudible language, "goats, Carl's goats," and I 



64 The Farm and The FmEsmE. 

gathered a broom and mauled them down the back steps. '* 1 told 
you, my dear," said I, "that those goats would give us trouble, but I 
can stand it if you can." 

Carl and Jesse have been begging for goats a good while and I was 
hostile, very hostile to goats, for I knew how much devilment they 
would do, but the little chaps slipped up on the weak side of their 
mother, and she finally hinted that children were children; that old 
folks had their dotage and children had their goatage and her little 
brothers used to have goats, and so the pair of goats were bought and 
Ealph worked two days making a wagon, and contrived some harness 
out of old bridle-reins and plow lines, and it took all hands to gear 'em 
up, and at the first crack of the whip they bounced three feet in the 
air, and kept on bouncing, and jerked Carl a rod, and got loose and 
run away and turned the wagon up side down, and they kept on leap- 
ing and jumping until they got all the harness broken up and got 
away. It beat a monkey show. We all laughed until we cried, but 
the little chaps have reorganized on a more substantial basis, and there 
is another exhibition to come off soon. 

Mr. Shakespeare says that a man has seven ages, but to my opinion 
a boy has about ten of his own. He begins with his first pair of 
breeches and a stick horse, and climbs up by degrees to toy guns and 
fire crackers and sling shot and breaking calves and billy goats, and to 
sure enough guns and a pointer dog, and the looking glass age when he 
admires himself and greases his hair and feels of his downy beard, and 
then he joins a brass band and toots a horn, and then he reads novels 
and falls in love and rides a prancing horse and writes perfumed notes 
to his girl. When his first love kicks him and begins to run with 
another fellow he drops into the age of despair, and wants to go to 
Texas or some other remote region, and sadly sings : 

"This world is all a fleeting show." 

Boys are mighty smart now-a-days. They know as much at ten 
years as we used to know at twenty, and it is right hard for us to keep 
ahead of 'em. Parents used to rule their children but children rule 
their parents now. There is no whipping at home, and if a boy gets 
a little at school it raises a row and a presentation to the grand jury. 
When my teacher whipped me I never mentioned it at home for fear 
of getting another. I got three whippings in one day when I was a lad ; 



The Farm a5jd The Fireside. 65 

I had a fight with another boy and he whipped me, and the school 
teacher whipped me for fighting, and my father whipped me because 
the teacher did. That was awful, wasent it. But it was right, and 
it did me good. One of these modern philanthropies was telling my 
kinsman the other day how to raise his boy. "Never whip him," said 
he. "Raise him on love and kindness and reason," and then he 
appealed to me for endorsement. "And when that boy is about 
twelve years old," said I, "do you go and talk to him and if possible 
persuade him not to whip his daddy. Tell him that it is wrong and 
unfilial, and will injure his reputation in the community." 

The modern boy is entirely too bigity. I was at church in Rome 
last Sunday and saw two boys there, aged about ten and twelve years, 
and after service they lit tbeir cigarettes and went off smoking. An 
old-fashioned man looked at 'em and remarked: " I would give a 
quarter to paddle them boys two minutes. I'll bet their fathers is 
afraid of 'em right now." The old-fashioned man never was afraid of 
his. He worked 'em hard, but he gave 'em all reasonable indulgence. 
He kept 'em at home of nights, and he made good men of them. 
They have prospered in business and acquired wealth, and are raising 
their children the same way, and they love and honor the old gentle- 
man for giving them habits of industry and economy. He was a 
merchant and didn't allow his boys to sweep out a string or a scrap of 
paper as big as your hat. Habits are the thing, good habits, habits of 
industry and economy ; when acquired in youth they stick all through 
life. 

And the girls need some watching too. They are most too fast 
now-a-days. Too fond of fashion, and they read too much trash. 
The old fashion retiring modesty of character is at a discount. They 
don't wait for the boys to come now, they go after 'em ; they marry in 
haste and repent at leisure ; they run round in their new-fashioned night 
gowns and call it a Mother Hubbard party. The newspapers have got 
up a sensation about the arm clutch ; well I don't see any difference 
between that clutch and any other clutch. The waist clutch in these 
round dances is just as bad or worse. They are all immodest and there 
is not a good mother in the land that approves of them. A girl who 
goes to a promiscuous ball and waltzes around with promiscuous fel- 
lows puts herself in a promiscuous fix to be talked about by the 
dudes and rakes and fast young men who have encircled her waist. A 



66 The Farm and The Fireside. 

girl should never waltz with a young man whom she woold not be 
willing to marry. Slander is very common now, slander of young 
ladies, and there are not many who escape it ; the trouble is it is not 
all slander, some of it is truth. In the olden times when folks got 
married they stayed married, but now the courts are full of divorces 
and the land is spotted with grass widows, and in many a household 
there is a hidden grief over a daughter's shame. It is a good thing 
for the girls to work at something that is useful. There is plenty of 
home work to do in most every household. If there is not then they 
can try drawing and sketching or painting or music, something that 
will entertain them. There are as many female dudes as males, and 
they ought to marry, I reckon, and go to raising fools for market. 

We have got a cook now and my folks are taking a rest. She is an 
old-fashioned darkey and flies around with a quick step and lightly. 
Anybody could tell that " Sicily" had had good training from a white 
mistress. When she gets through her work she brings up a tub of 
water and goes to washing up the floors without being told ; she 
washes the dishes clean and is nice about the milk and the churning, 
and is good to the children. She lets them cook a little and make 
boys and horses out of the biscuit dough. The like of that suits Mrs. 
Arp exactly. If I was a darkey I would know exactly how to get 
Mrs. Arp's money and her old dresses and a heap of little things 
thrown in. Yesterday morning Sicily's husband knocked at the door 
very early and said his wife was sick, sick all night, and Mrs. Arp 
turned over and exclaimed," Oh my." I told him to go to the next 
room and tell the girls, and I heard 'em groan and say "goodness 
gracious," but they got up and gave us a first-class breakfast, and I 
praised 'em up lots. I promised to let 'em go to town and tumble up 
the new goods and bring back a big lot of samples. Girls should be 
encouraged when they do well. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 67 



CHAPTER X. 



Mr. Arp Feels His Inadequacy. 

Sometimes a man feels entirely unadequate to the occasion. A kind 
of lonesome and helpless feeling comes over him that no philosophy 
can shake off. I dident have but five sheep. They were fine and fat 
and followed us about when we walked down to the meadow, and our 
little shepherd dog thought they were the prettiest things in the world, 
and they would eat salt out of the children's hands, and we were 
thinking about the little lambs that would come in the spring. There 
was a house for them in the meadow and it was full of clean wheat 
straw where they could take shelter from the rain and the wind. 

Alas for human hopes. It looks like everything is born to trouble, 
especially sheep. Yesterday morning I walked down to the branch 
with my tender offspring, and before I was prepared for it the torn 
and bloody form of the old he ram was seen lying in the water before 
me. While I stood and pondered over this sad calamity, the children 
soon found the others scattered round in the mire and bullrushes stiff 
and cold and dead. I thought of Mrs. Arp, my wife. What would 
she say. I thought of that passage of Scriptures which says "beware 
of dogs." I thought of Joe Harris and the Constitution and that 
confounded legislature. I thought of guns and striknine and the 
avenger of blood. Slowly and sadly we returned to the house, and 
when the children had unfolded the mournful tale Mrs. Arp, my wife, 
stopped washing the dishes and sat down by the fire. For awhile she 
never spoke. She seemed unadequate. There was a solemn stillness 
pervading the assembled family. The children looked at me and then 
at their mother, when suddenly says she, choking up, "The poor 
things; torn to pieces by the dogs right here in a few steps of the 
house. I heard Juno barking furiously in the piazzo and I heard the 
cows lowing like something was after their calves, and I thought I 
would wake you, but I didn't. Poor things, if they had only blated 
or made a noise. After a solemn pause, she rose forward and exclaimed : 
"William Arp, if I was a man I would take my gun and never stop 
till I had killed every dog in the naborhood. A little while back 



68 The Farm and The Fireside. 

they killed all our geese in that same meadow. These trifling people 
round here hunt rabbits all over your plantation with their sheep kill- 
ing dogs, and you won't stop 'em for fear of hurtin their feelings, and 
now you see what we get by it. I'd go and shoot their dogs in their 

own yards, and if they made a fuss about it I would well, I don't 

know what I wouldn't do." 

*'If I knew the dogs that did it — " said I, meekly. 

"Knew the dogs!" said she. ''Why you know that big, brindle 
that got hung by his block down there in the willows, and you ought 
to have killed him then, and you know that white dog, and the spotted 
one that prowls around, and those dogs that them boys are always 
hunting with — you can kill them anyhow. We will never have any- 
thing if you don't protect yourself, and the Lord knows we've got 
little enough now." 

"They will come back to-night," said I, and shore enough they did, 
and the boys laid in w^ait for 'em and got some revenge, and we've 
given the naborhood fair warning that henceforth we will kill every 
dog that puts his foot on our premises, law or no law, gospel or no 
gospel. We've declared war. A dog that won't stay at home at night 
ain't fit to be a dog. The next man w^ho runs for the legislature in 
this county has got to commit himself against dogs or I'll run against 
him whether the people vote for me or not, and if he beats me I 
reckon I can move out of the county, can't I, or quit trying to raise 
sheep. My nabor, Mr. Dobbins, says they have killed over a hun- 
dred for him in the last two years and he has quit. He won't try to 
raise any more. 

But we are reviving a little. The ragged edge of our indignation 
has worn off. We skinned the poor things and the buzzards have 
preyed upon their carcasses, and once more our family affairs are 
moving along in subdued serenity. Last night Mrs. Arp, my wife, 
told the girls she didn't think their lightbread w^as quite as light and 
nice as she used to make it, and she would show them her \vay, so they 
could take pattern. She fixed up the yeast and made up the dough 
and put it down by the fire to rise, and this morning it had riz about 
a quarter of an inch, which she remarked was very curious, but 
reckoned it was too cold, and so she put it in the oven to bake and 
then it got sullen and riz downwards, and by the time it was done it was 
about as thick as a ginger cake, and weighed nigh unto a pound to 



The Farm and The Fireside. 69 

the square inch. She never said anything, but hid it away on the 
top shelf of the cupboard. I saw the girls a blinking around, and 
when lunch time came I got it down and carried it along like it was a 
keg of nails and put it before her. ' ' I thought you would like some 
ligh thread," said I. 

She laid down her knife and fork, and for a moment was alto- 
gether unadequate to the occasion. Suddenly she seized the stubborn 
loaf, and as I ran out of the door it took me right in the small of my 
back, and I actually thought somebody had struck me on the spine 
with a maul. "Now, Mr. Impudence, take that," said she. "If a 
man asks for bread w^ill you give him a stone," said I. Seeing that 
hostilities were about to be renewed, I retired prematurely to the 
piazzo to ruminate on the rise of cotton and w^heat, and iron, and 
everything else but bread. She's got two little grandsons staying with 
her, and unbeknowing to me she hacked that bread into chunks and 
armed five little chaps with 'em, and she came forth as captain of the 
gang and suddenly they took me unawares in a riotus and tumultuous 
manner. They banged me up awfully before I could get out of the 
way. My head is sore all over, and take it all in all, I consider myself 
the injured person. I mention this circumstance as a warnin' to let 
all things alone when your wife hides 'em, especially bread that 
wouldent rise. Mrs. Arp, my wife, has most wonderful control of 
these little chaps — children and grand-children. She can sick 'em 
onto me with a nod or a wink, but I can't sick 'em onto her ; no, sir. 
I never tried, and I don't reckon I ever will, but I just know I 
couldn't. I don't have much of a showing with these children. This 
morning I found one of 'em climbin' up on the sash of the flower pit 
and while I was hunting for a switch the little rascal ran to his grandma, 
and that was the end of it. She never said nothing, but sorter paused 
and looked at me. My only chance is to get 'em away off in the field 
or the woods and thrash 'em generally for a month's rascality, and then 
honey them up just before we get home to keep 'em from telling on 
me. For thirty years Mrs. Arp, my wife, has labored under the 
delusion that the children are hers, and that I had mighty little to do 
with 'em from the beginning. I would like to see somebody try to 
take 'em away with a habeas corpus or any other corpus. Goodness 
gracious! Talk about a lioness robbed of her whelps or a she bear of 
her cubs. Well, it couldn't be done, that's all. 



70 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XI. 



A Feast in a Sycamore Grove. 



THE LAMB AND THE PIG THE WATERMELON AND THE BRUNSWICK 

STEW AN ANECDOTE OF JUDGE JUNIUS HILLYER PEELING 

PEACHES. 

I was peeling nice soft peaches for dinner just to save Mrs. Arp the 
trouble, and get an approving smile, when suddenly she came up 
behind me and said, "William, are your hands right clean?" I held 
them up for her to look at as I remarked, "If they were not at first I 
reckon they are now." It seems to me that some folks get more par- 
ticular about such things as they grow older, and it takes more water 
and soap and whitewash and sweeping and scouring than it used to. 
Maybe the appetite is not so good, and the spectacles magnify too 
much. I used to could knock the ashes out of my pipe on the piaza 
floor and get a little dirt from my shoes on the banisters and leave 
some dirty water in the pan at the back door, but I am gradually 
quitting these little things for the sake of being calm and serene in 
my declining years. Cleanliness is a good thing, I know, and the 
scripters say it is next to godliness, and if so I know some good 
women who are mighty nigh sanctified already. But somehow I like 
a little clean dirt scattered around, just to enjoy the contrast when we 
do clean up. I don't think a man can enjoy a clean shirt until he 
gets one dirty. When I showed Mrs. Arp my fingers that the peaches 
had made so clean it reminded me of the venerable Judge Hillyer, 
the old patriarch, whom I used to venerate when I was a boy, for he 
was handsome and eloquent, and used language with such precision 
and accent. He was always looking into the reason of things — the 
why and the wherefore, and if he saw anything strange he stopped and 
perused and inquired until he got to the bottom of it. The first time 
he ever went to New York, Howell Cobb was his companion, and 
Howell had a hard time in getting the judge along, for he wanted to 



The Farm and The Fireside. 71 

see everything and to know everything. "Now, Howell," said he, 
''just stop right here and tell me what that is, and what is it for?" 
"Howell, do you suppose that all these people have got pressing busi- 
ness that hurries them along so fast?" "Howell, have you any idea 
what that store of Stuart's cost ?" Cobb w^as hurrying him along a 
back street, when the judge stopped and looking over a window screen 
into a room, saw the heads and shoulders of two men going up and 
down with a curious motion. His curiosity was excited and says he, 
"Howell, what are those men doing?" "Oh, I don't know, Junius. 
Come along," said Howell. "We will never get to the hotel if we 
keep stopping to examine everything you see." "But, Howell, I 
want you to look at those men. They are engaged in something very 
peculiar, and conscientiously, I would like to know what it is." 

Howell peeped through an opening in the screen and said, " Why, 
Junius, they are treading up dough in a trough ; they are making 
baker's bread. Don't you see ? " 

The judge was amazed. He looked earnestly at them as they 
tramped the dough with their bare legs and feet, and with great 
emphasis, said slowly and distinctly, " Howell, do you suppose their 
feet are clean?" "I haven't a doubt of it, Hillyer," said Cobb. 
" I know they are clean by this time." And he hurried him along. 

Cobb said afterwards that the judge was very fond of baker's bread, 
but he noticed that he didn't eat much more of it in New York. 

But folks get tired of eating the same kind of vittels every day, 
and in the same room and keeping off the same flies and kicking the 
same cat from under the table, and so the other day I took a notion 
to change the programme. Mrs. Arp had told me many a time that 
she had never eat any barbecued meat since she was a child, and she 
thought then that it was the best meat she ever did eat. And so I 
got an old-fashioned darkey who said, " Yes, boss, I used to barbecu 
meat for old master away back when Mr. Polk run agin Mr. Clay, 
and the old master and all of us niggers was for Mr Clay, and w^e 
used to give barbecues and have a powerful time just afore de 
'lection." 

I cleaned up the ground and trimmed the trees in a beautiful 
little sycamore grove down by the branch, and I had a little pit dug, 
and we sacrificed a fat lamb and a fat pig, and hung them up over 
night, and we hauled a load of bark and stovewood, and the old dar- 



72 The Farm and The Fireside. 

key had a big bed of coals by daylight, and had the meat on, and after 
breakfast we built a table and some plank seats, and put up a swing 
for the children and swung the hammock, and toted down some chairs 
and put everything in shape for the company. Of course I invited 
Mrs. Arp first and foremost, and then the kindred and friends who 
are our welcome guests. The girls fixed up the vinegar and pepper 
and butter to baste the meat with while it was cooking, and they made 
an old-fashioned Brunswick stew, and I roasted a lot of green corn in 
the shuck under the hot ashes at one end of the pit, and while every- 
thing was in a weaving way about twelve o'clock I blowed the horn 
for the company, and about a score of them came down and were 
delighted with the prospect and the place. Everybody seemed happy, 
especially the children, and Mrs. Arp organized herself a toasting 
committee of one, and in due time pronounced it all very good and 
ready for business. Gallant gentlemen carved the odorous carcasses 
and prepared it for distribution. The stew was declared splendid. I 
noticed that thfe married women all flavored it with hot onion sauce, 
and it alw^ays seemed strange to me how soon after marriage a woman 
begins to love onions. The meats came on in due time, and every- 
body got a sweet and juicy rib. The ribs are the best part of any- 
thing, and I reckon that is why a woman is so sweet, for she was made 
of a rib while man was made of dirt. After this course was over the 
girls surprised us all with lemon pies and cake and frozen sherbet, and 
after that we all rested and played cards, and had music and song on 
the banjo, and the men told some big yarns, which the young ladies 
believed and the old ones didn't. Can't fool a married woman long 
with yarns. One of our party told about hunting deer up in the 
Cohutta mountains, and he rode up a clifiT so steep that w^hen he got 
most to the top he pulled the top burrs irom a pine tree a hundred 
feeit high that grew at the base of the mountains. Another one told 
about killing nineteen wild turkeys at one shot away out in the 
Indian nation where he said they broke down the trees, aild there was 
fifteen thousand killed on one creek in the month of December. These 
sort of yarns are catching and one calls for another, and so I was just 
about to wade in when I noticed that Mrs. Arp was perusing me and 
modestly I refrained and postponed my adventures to a more conven- 
ient season. It is not prudent for an old man to tell the heroic 



The Farm and The Fireside. 73 

exploits of his youth if his wife lived in the same settlement and 
knows his raising, and so I never do brag much when she is about. 

Well, we had a splendid afternoon, and wound it up with melons 
from the spring, and then adjourned to the house feeling all the bet- 
ter for this little episode in our daily life. 



74 ^Ihe Farm and The Fieeside. 



CHAPTER XII. 



Trials and Tribulations. 

*' All the world's a stage," as Mr Shakespeare says, and all the men 
and women merely travelers. It is a mighty big stage, of course — 
in fact, an omnibus, for it carries us all, and we are traveling along 
and getting in and getting out all along the line, and ever and anon stop- 
ping by the wayside to nurse our sick and bury our dead. There is noth- 
ing else that puts on the brakes as we move down the big road on the 
journey of life. Sickness and death are a veto upon all progress, and 
upon plans, and schemes, and hopes, and ambition, and fame, and fash" 
ion and folly. We suffer awhile ani stop awhile, but if we don't die 
we get in the stage again and move on with the crowd. Sickness 
knocks up a man and humbles him quicker than anything. Just let 
the pitiless angel of pain come along suddenly and seize him by some 
vital part and twist him around a time or two and shake him up, and 
he will know better what the word torture means when he reads it in 
a book. I thought I was a strong man and tough, and so the angel 
has had no terrors for me. I've had the toothache and mashed my 
big toe with a crow-bar and got around lively with a green-corn dance, 
but after it was over I forgot the sting of it and only remembered the 
joke. But there are some things without any joke, and that won't let 
you forget 'em, and when they come and go they leave you humbled 
and hacked and meek as a lamb with his legs tied. They take away 
your pride, and your brag and your starch and stiffening. They strip 
you of flowers and frills and thread lace and jewelry and leave a poor 
mortal like a dependent beggar for the charity of health, good health. 
"If I was only well again," the poor victim sighs; "Oh, if I was 
only well again." 

When a man gets along to my age he forgets that he is on the down 
grade ; that he is like a second-hand wagon patched up and painted 
and sold at auction to the highest bidder. It will run mighty well on 
a smooth road and a light load and a careful driver, but it won't do to 



The Farm and The Fireside. 75 

lock wheels with another, or run into a gully, or over stumps, or up to 
the hubs in the low grounds. A man is very much like a wagon, any- 
how, for his shoulders and hips are the axle-trees and his arms and 
legs are the wheels and the wagon-body is his body and the coupling 
pole is his spine and the hounds are his kidneys — his reins, as the 
kScriptures call 'em — and they brace up everything and hold up the 
tongue and the coupling pole, and if the hounds are weak and rick- 
ety the hind wheels don't track with the fore wheels, and the whole 
concern moves along with a hitch and a jerk and a double wabble. 
" He tryeth the reins of the children of men," for that was the test 
of a man. If the kidneys were sound and well ordered the man was 
right before the Lord, for in them was supposed to be centered the 
affections and passions and emotions of a man. Those oldtime philos- 
ophers attached a good deal of importance to the kidneys, but I 
thought it was a superstition of their ignorance, and I never cared 
much about my kidneys. In fact, I didn't care whether I had any 
kidneys or not, for I was a thinking what Judge Underwood told me a 
long time ago about the spleen, which he said was only put there to 
make men splenetic and cross, and keep 'em from getting overjoyful 
in this subloonary world. I thought that maybe the kidneys w^ere like 
the liver of a man over in California, which was crushed out of him 
in a mine some fifty years ago, when he was about fifty years old, but 
he was sewed up and got well, and he is a hundred years old and not 
a hair turned grey, nor a wrinkle come, nor his eyes grown dim, nor 
his teeth come out, and he keeps well and sound and plumb and active, 
and goes to balls, and never has an ache or a pain, and its all because 
his liver is gone. Jesso. 

Well, you see I had promised to build a dam across the branch 
down in the willow thicket and make a bathing pool for the children; 
and so a few days ago I went at it with a will, and got my timbers 
across and my boards nailed on slanting up the stream to a rock bottom, 
and then I put on some old boots and old clothes and went to chinkin' 
up the leaks with turf and gravel and willow brush and sand bags, 
and as fast as I stopped one leak another broke out; but I worked fast 
and W'Orked hard, and the children waited on me and brought me 
material, and after awhile the water began to rise on me, and got 
higher till it went over the dam. It was then about noon, and the 
hot sun w^as blistering dow^n, and ihe cold spring water was chilling 



76 The Farm and The Fireside. 

me up, and I begun to feel age and infirmity ; so I took a bath myself, 
and put on dry clothes and retired to rest from my labors. That 
evening I listened to the shouts of happy children as they frolicked in 
the pool, and I rejoiced, for it always makes me happy to see them 
happy. The next day I dident get up well, and as I was a knockin' 
around in my garden, a holdin' up my back, shore enough, without 
any warnin', the unfeelin' angel of pain come along suddenly and 
snapped me up by the left kidney like he wanted to wrestle, and took 
all underholt, and he spun me around with such a jerk I almost lost 
my breath with agony, and he pummeled me and humped me all the 
way to the house, and threw me on the bed while I hollered. "What 
in the world is the matter with you, William?" says my wife, Mrs. 
Arp, says she to me ; and the children all gathered round and thought 
I was snake bit. ''I've got a turrible pain round here," says I; 
"turrible, turrible. Oh, Lordy!" They filled up the stove in a 
hurry, and brought water ; and they gave me camphor, and paregoric, 
and one thing another; but I got worse, and groaned and grunted 
amazingly, for I tell you I was a suiferin'. 

"I expected it! I expected it!" says Mrs. Arp, as she moved round 
lively. *'I just knew some trouble would come from all that dam 
business of yesterday." My stomach had suddenly got out of order — 
I don't know how — for everything they give me come up before it was 
down; and so they tried salts and quinine and hot water and pain- 
killer, and morphine, and magnum bonum and everything in the 
house, but nothing would stick, and at last the pain just left as sud- 
denly as it came on, and I went to sleep. But my system was all out 
of order; the machinery wouldn't work nowhere. The cold sweat 
poured from me all night, and I dreamed I was away off in a wet 
prairie, lying down in the cold grass, hiding from a herd of buffaloes, 
and I woke up with a shaking ague and had to have my night clothes 
changed and dried off like a race horse. The morning brought 
another attack still worse than the first, but the good Dr. Kirkpatrick 
came in time and put me on morphine and spirits of nitre, a hot bath 
and shortened up the time, and told me my trouble was in the kidneys, 
and what was going on, and when he left me I was easy and meek 
and humble, and could look around upon wife and children like 
nobody was a sinner but me. When I was awake I could look up at 
the old whitewash that was peeling off from the ceiling and see all 



The Farm and The Fireside. 77 

sorts of pictures I never saw before. They took shapes innumerable, 
for there were monkeys, and camels, and bears and buzzards, and 
turtles, and big Injuns, and little Frenchmen, and old witches, and 
anacondas and other menagerie animals all out of shape, and funny 
and fantastic; and while I was asleep 1 dreamed ridiculous dreams, 
and the quinine that was in me made me to hear waterfalls and mill- 
dams, and once I imagined the dam I had built had grown and swelled 
until Niagara was but a circumstance compared to it. But alas, there 
is no rest for the wicked, for although I had escaped for a day and 
night, and was banking upon bright hopes and returning health, the 
unfeeling angel came along again, and seeing me recovering 
from the fight, began on me with a second assault, and beat up my 
left kidney again till it was all in a jelly and as sore and as sensitive 
as a carbuncle. While he was beating me I seemed to hear him say, 
"You didn't know you had kidneys, did you? How many do you 
think you have now?" "About a dozen," said I; " eight or ten any- 
how, and they are as big and as heavy as shot bags." The fact is that 
my left side was so sore and I was so nervous that it almost gave me 
a spasm to think of anybody touching me there with a stick. But 
the torture all of a sudden left me, as suddenly as it came, and the 
breath, good and free, could get way oiice more. But now I think I 
am all safe, and Richard is himself again. Good nursing and the 
doctor's skill and patience has got the wagon in traveling condition, 
and now I think I will make friends with my kidneys and a treaty of 
peace with the angel, and the treaty is that I am to build no more 
dams during life, if I have to wade in the water to do it. 



78 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



Love Affairs. 



Married and gone. It is the same old story. Love and courtship. 
Then comes the engagement ring and a blessed interval of fond hopes 
and happy dreams, and then the happy day is fixed — the auspicious 
day that is never to be forgotten — a day that brings happiness or mis- 
ery and begins a new life. Then comes the license, the permit of the 
law which says you may marry, you may enter into bonds. The 
State approves it and the law allows it, and it will cost you only a 
dollar and a quarter. Cheap, isn't it ? And yet it may be very dear. 
Then comes the minister, and the happy pair stand up before him and 
make some solemn vows and listen to a prayer and a benediction, and 
they are one. In a moment the trusting maid has lost her name and 
her free will, and is tied fast to a man. Well, he is tied fast, too, so 
it is all right all round, I reckon, but somehow I always feel more 
concern about the woman than the man. She is a helpless sort of a 
creature and takes the most risk, for she risks her all. 

We gave him a cordial welcome into the family, and we kissed her 
lovingly and bade them good-bye, and the children threw a shower of 
rice over them a3d an old shoe after them, and they were soon on their 
way to the land of flowers. She was not our child, but was almost, for 
Mrs. Arp was the only mother she ever knew, and we loved her. 

I sat in my piazza ruminating over the scene, and I wondered that 
there were as many happy matings as there seem to be. Partners for 
life ought to be congenial and harmonious in so many things. W hen 
men make a partnership in business they can't get along well if they 
are unlike in disposition or in moral principle, or in business ways and 
business habits. But they can dissolve and separate at pleasure and 
try another man. 

A man and his wife ought to be alike in almost everything. It is 
said that folks like their opposite, their counterparts, and so they do 
in some respects. A man with blue eyes goes mighty nigh distracted 



The Farm and The Fireside. 79 

over a woman with hazle eyes. I did, and I'm distracted yet when- 
ever I look into them. But in mental qualities and emotional quali- 
ties and tastes and habits and principles and convictions and the like, 
they ought to class together. Indeed, it is better for them to have 
the same politics and the same religion. And so I have observed that 
the happiest unions, as a general thing, are those where the high con- 
tracting parties have known each other for a long time, and have 
assimilated from their youth in thought and feeling. When a man 
goes off to some watering place and waltzes a few times with a charm- 
ing girl and falls desperately in love and marries her off hand, it is a 
long shoot and a narrow chance for happiness. Why, we may live in 
the same town with people and not know as much about them as we 
ought to. I never made any mistake about my choice of a partner 
for the dance of a life, but I've thought of it a thousand times that if 
Mrs. Arp had known I loved codfish and got up by daybreak every 
morning, she never would have had me. It was nip and tuck to get 
her anyhow, and that would have been the feather to break the 
camel's back. Well, I'm mortal glad she didn't know it, though I am 
free to say that if I had known she slept until the second ringing of 
the first bell for breakfast and was fond of raw oysters, it would have 
had a dampening effect upon my ardor for a few minutes, only a few. 
But I have seen some mighty clever people eat oysters raw and sleep late 
in the morning. But still a man and his wife can harmonize and com- 
promise a good many of these things, and it is a beautiful illustration 
of this to see Mrs. Arp cooking codfish for me and fixing it all up so 
nice with eggs and cream, and it is a touching evidence of my undy- 
ing devotion to her, to see me wandering about the house lonely and 
forlorn every morning for an hour or two, and forbidding even the 
cat to walk heavy while she sleeps. That codfish business comes to 
me honestly from my father's side, and my mother put up with it 
like a good, considerate wife, and we children grew up with an idea 
that is was good. I've heard of a young couple who got married and 
went off to Augusta on a tour, and the feller stuck his fork into a 
codfish ball and took a bite. He choked it down like a hero, and 
when his beloved asked him what was the matter, replied: ''Don't 
say anything about it, Mandy, but as sure as you are born there is 
something dead in the bread." 

Well, we can make compromises about all such things as habits and 



80 The Farm and The Fireside. 

tastes, but there are some things that won't compromise worth a cent. 
If a girl has been brought up to have a good deal of freedom, and thinks 
it no harm to go waltzing around with every gay Lothario who loves 
to dance, and after she gets a feller of her own, wants to keep at it 
and have polluted arms around her waist, she had just as well sing 
farewell to conjugal love and domestic peace, for it is against the order 
of nature for a loving husband to stand it, and he oughtn't. There 
is another thing that ought to be considered, and that is age. A few 
years makes no difference, but an old man had better be careful about 
marrying a young wife. He wont be happy but about two weeks, and 
then his misery will begin and it will never end. It may be better 
for a woman to be an old man's darling than a young man's slave, but 
she had better be neither. When a young girl marries an old man for 
his money she has gone back on herself, for money don't bring happi- 
ness. Money helps, but money with a dead weight is a curse — an 
aggravation. I was talkmg one day to an old man, a Frenchman, 
who had made a hermit of himself, and was living all alone in the 
woods, and he said : " Mine frien', I have make one grand meestake. 
Mine first wife whom I marry ven I vas young vas an angel from 
heaven, God bless her, but mine last wife she did not come from up 
dere, she come dis vay — and he pointed downwards. " I vas old and 
she vas young. I had money and she had none. I marry her in 
haste and repent at my leisure. I try to live wid her tree years, but 
we were not compatible. It was against the order of nature and I 
find myself a fool and a prisoner, and so I geeve her half my monies 
and run away from her and hide in dis vilderness, and here vill I live 
and here vill I die, and ven I go oop to St. Peter and tell heem how 
dat voman trouble me on earth de good man vill open de garden gate 
and say, come in my brother, for you have had trouble enough." 

Country marriages are generally happier than those made in cities 
among the families of the rich. Children raised to work and to wait 
on themselves make better husbands and better wives than those raised 
in luxury. It is mighty hard for a man to please his wife and keep 
her in a good humor if she has been petted by her parents and never 
knew a want and had no useful work to do. She soon takes the ennui 
or the conniptions or the "don't know what I want," and must go back 
to ma. A young lady who never did anything after she quit school 
but dress for company and make visits and go to the theatre or the 



The Farm and The Fireside. 81 

dance, will never make a good wife. This wife business is a very 
serious business. It is right hard work to play wife. The mother of 
six, eight or ten children has seen sights. She knows what care is 
and work is, and one of these do-nothing women can't stand it. If 
she is a used up institution with one child, two will finish her, and if 
it wasn't for condensed milk the children would perish to death in a 
month after they were born, and sorter like the cows in Florida. I 
heard a Florida man say the other day that a Florida cow dident give 
enough milk to color the coffee for breakfast, and they had to raise the 
calves on the bottle. Getting married ought to be a considerate bus- 
iness. Folks oughtn't to get married in a hurry, neither ought they 
to wait' four or five years; six months is long enough for an engage- 
ment. I don't mean children. I mean grown folks who have settled 
down in life and know what they are about. There is no goodlier 
sight in all nature than to see a good-looking healthy young man, who 
is making an honest living, standing up at the altar with a pure, sweet, 
good-tempered, affectionate, industrious girl, and the parents on both 
sides approving the match. Then the big pot ought to be put in the 
little pot, and everybody rejoice. 



<S2 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XIV. 



Tells of His Wife's Birthday. 

It is impossible for a man or a woman either to be calm and serene 
■when surprised by awful and terrible things, unless they are always 
prepared for 'em, which they ain't. I have been wanting to see some 
big thing all my life, but I wanted to be in a safe place while it hap- 
pened, and at a very respectable distance. I would like to have been 
there when Vesuvius run over and swallowed up Herculaneum and 
Pompeii, and I want to feel the shake of a big earthquake a mile 
or two away from the crack. I would enjoy a storm at sea and a gen- 
uine shipwreck if I knew we were to strike some rock not far from 
shore and eventually be saved. I've been reading every now and 
then about those awful storms and winds that of late years have been 
perusing the country below us and blowing wagons up in the tree tops 
and shingles through solid oak trees and carrying houses away and 
twistmg off timber like it was wheat straw, and I thought I would like 
to see a young cyclone meandering around, just to get the hang of the 
thing, and shore enough a little one come along here last Sunday and 
made a call without any premonition, and now I'm satisfied, and don't 
hanker after any more such visitations. We were sitting on the piazza 
watching the black clouds as they loomed up in the west, and listening 
to the rumbling thunder, when suddenly the roar of coming winds was 
heard, and the storm came in sight over the brow of Mumford's moun- 
tain, and came down the valley before us with the big drops of rain in 
front, and then the hail following after, and the wind like a tornado. We 
hurried down the window sash and took in the chairs, and before we 
knew it, it took two of us to shut the front door, and so we retreated 
to the back piazza, and by the time we got there the roof was rattling 
like a million buck-shot w^as being poured on it from a big dump-cart 
away up yonder, and it covered the ground and banked up in the back 
yard about three inches deep, and while we were all a wondering what 
the thing would do next, the wind shifted around and around and 



The Farm and The FiREStDE. 83 

€ome from the east as hard as it did from the west, and pretty soon it 
was coming from all points of the compass and everywhere else all at 
once and slammed all the doors and twisted the tree tops around and 
around, and I was a-fixing to move the family down in the basement, 
when suddenly my wife, Mrs. Arp, says she to me, ** Where is Carl 
and where is Kalph?" *' They are down in the barn," said I calmly. 
' ' They are all safe, for the barn is under the hill." ' ' Merciful heavens," 
said she. "I know something will happen to 'em. You must go after 
'em." So I put on the oilcloth and fooled round for an umbrel and 
couldn't find one, and it wouldn't have been any more than a fly in a 
hurricane no how, and I heard the limbs a-popping and saw the trees 
a-bending and the hail was getting bigger and more thicker and more 
denser and I knowed the little boys were safe, and so I kept foolin' 
round and round until shore enough I dident go and Mrs. Arp she 
calmed down a little, for about this time the storm abated a little, and 
we could see the boys looking out from the barn windows. I aint 
tellin' no lie when I say that fall of rain and hail dident last more than 
fifteen minutes, but it raised the branch that crosses the big road by 
my house five feet in half an hour and spread out all over the meadow 
and up and down the road for a hundred yards, and a nabor come 
along from town in a buggy and had to swim it horse and all, and he 
said the road was as dry as a powder horn at Felton's chapel, and 
another man came from the other way and said it was all dust at 
Bishops, and this showed me that the storm-path was only about a mile 
wide, and it was obliged to have been a cyclone, for we have heard of 
it going on about the same way and tearing things up fearfully. One 
nabor had a big tree blown on his barn, and a lad of a boy was in 
there and it skeered him so he tried to run head foremost home, and 
the wind picked him up and spun him round like a hummin' top and 
then laid him down flat and told him to stay there, and he stayed. 
The oats that had not been harvested look just like a big iron roller 
had been rolled over 'em and then the whole concern ironed out smooth 
with a flat iron. We've been mighty busy mowing 'em with the 
machine, and have managed to save 'em pretty well, though it's right 
hard to tell which is the best end of the bundles. But they will thrash 
all the same, and no loss on our side. The rail fences on nabor Cot- 
ton's hill went to play in' Jack-straws, and the corn looks like the 
blades had all been drawn through a shuck riddle. Nearly all my 



84 The Farm and The Fireside. 

tomatoes have got a bruise on 'em, and the grapes are pretty much in 
the same fix. Squash leaves and cabbage leaves are riddled with holes, 
but after all I can't see any very serious damage, and we are trying to 
be calm and serene. Well, I believe the cyclone did sorter surprise 
two nice young gentlemen who were perusing the girls at our house, 
and when they went out in the hail to keep their horse and buggy 
from running away the storm got so bad, and they got so damp and 
moist all over, they had to go home prematurely, which we didn't 
approve, for we could have made a fire and dried 'em in a few minutes, 
or they could have put on some of my garments which would have 
been more than a foot or a foot and a half too short at both ends. 
But they are young and hopeful, and went oflT down the road singing 
Hail Columbia, happy land. Hail Boreas and be hanged. 

We've had a birthday at our house. There are big birthdays and 
little ones, common ones and uncommon ones, when the female 
patriarch of a family, the queen of the household, meets her 60th 
birthday and has got too much good sense to go back on her age or be 
ashamed of it, it is an event, it is, sorter like a golden wedding or the 
declaration of independence or some other big thing. But there is no 
collapse, no surrender, no let down, not a silver thread among the 
raven hair, no crow's feet or wrinkled brow, no loss of speech or lan- 
guage, no weakness of memory. Sometimes I wish she would forget 
something, but she can't, and my short comings, like Banquo's ghost, 
come up before me ever and anon. So the queen had a birthday 
dinner and she got a nice new dress and a hall lamp and a beautiful 
chair and a pair of peafowls wherewith to raise her own fly brushes, 
and that night we had music and dancing and song, for Solomon says 
old age is honorable, and I never could see any good sense in a woman 
or a widower trying to conceal it. I never expect to be either the one 
or the other, and can't appreciate their peculiar feelings, but I never 
hear of a married woman concealing her advancing years but what I 
think she is fixing the triggers for a second husband before the first 
one dies. But one thing is certain — there's no triggers about our 
house, and there will be no step-father to my children, for, as Mrs- 
Arp says, sometimes a burnt child dreads the fire. Jesso. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 85 



CHAPTER XV. 



Mrs. Arp Goes Off on a Visit. 

Man was not made to live alone, I don't mean alone like Robinson 
Cruso, but alone in a house withoijt a woman — a help-mate, a pard. 
Its an awful thing to come in and find the maternal chair vacant, 
even for a season. I know she has gone, but still I imagine that she 
is somewhere on the premises a circulatiu' around and around. I am 
listenin' for the rustle of her dress or the creak of her nimble shoe — 
she wears number 2's, with a high instep, and walks like a deer. 
Ever and anon methinks I hear her accustomed voice saying, William 
William — major, come here a moment. 

What wonderful resolution some women have got! Mrs. Arp has 
at last departed. She has undertook a journey. For several weeks 
it has been the family talk. Some said she w^ould get off and some 
said she wouldent. As for herself, she was serious and non-committal, 
but we daily observed that the big old trunk that contained the 
accumulated fragments of better days was being diligently ransacked. 
Scraps of lace, and lawn, and ribbon, and silk, and velvet, and mus- 
lin, and bumbazeen, and cassimere were brought forth and aired, and 
the flatiron kept busy pressing and smoothing the wrinkles that age 
had furrowed in them. All sorts of patterns from Demarest, and 
Ehrick and Butterick, were over-hauled and consulted with a kind of 
sad reality. A woman may be too poor to buy calico at 5 cents a 
yard, but she will have patterns. Little jackets, and pants, and shirts, 
little dresses, and drawers, and petticoats, and aprons had to be made 
up, and nobody but her knew what they would be made of. I tell 
you, one of these old-fashioned mothers is a mirical of grace. It aint 
uncommon for folks nowadays to be their own tailors and dressmakers, 
but it takes sense and genius to get up a respectable outfit from scraps 
and old clothes outgrown or abandoned for ratage and leakage. It 
was wonderful to see her rip 'em, and turn 'em, and cut 'em, and twist 
'em — getting a piece here and a scrap there, cutting them down to the 



S6 The Farm and The Fireside. 

pattern — running them through the machine, and before anybody 
knew it she had the little chaps arrayed as fine as a band-box and 
never called on anybody for a nickel. That's what I call the quintes- 
sence of domestic economy. Nobody can beat her in that line. She 
knows how to put the best foot foremost. Her children have got to 
look as decent as other people's, or she will keep 'em at home, certain. 
She don't go about much, and seems to grow closer and closer to the 
chimney corner; but when she does move its a family sensation. 
Every one helps — every one advises and encourages her in a subdued 
and respectful way. All want her to go off and rest and have a good 
time for her own sake, but tell her over and over how much they will 
miss her, and wear a little shadow of sorrow in the nigh side of the 
face. I think though she suspected all the time they would turn up 
Jack while she was away. 

Well, she did get off at last — on a three hours' journey and to stay a 
whole week. It was a tremendious undertaking, for she said the har- 
ness might break, or the buggy collapse, or the old mare run away on 
the road to town, and the cars might run ofi^ the track or break 
through a bridge, or not stop long enough for her to get off with the 
children, or let her off and take the children on, or some of us would 
get sick, or the house catch afire, or some tramp come along in the 
night and rob us and cut all our throats while we were asleep, and 
we wouldent know a thing about itjtill next morning. 

"Now, William," said she, "be- mighty careful of everything, for 
you know how poor we are anyhow." ''Poor as Lazarus," said I "but 
he's a restin' in Abraham's bosom." "Well, never mind Lazarus," 
said she, ' ' the paregoric and quinine and turpentine are on the shelf 
in the cabinet. I have hid the laudanum, for its dangerous, and you 
havent more than half sense in the night time, and might make a mis- 
take. Don't let Ralph have the gun nor go to the mill pond. There 
are four geese a setting, and you must look after the 'goslins, and if 
you don't shoot that hawk spring chickens will be mighty scarce on 
this lot. And see here, William, I want you to take the beds off the 
bedsteads in my room and shut the doors and windows and make a fire 
of sulphur in some old pan. They say it will just kill everything." 
"Must I stay inside or outside," said I, in a Cassibianca tone. "May 
be you had better try it awhile inside," said she, "just to see if you 



The Farm and The Fireside. 87 

ever could get used to it. Now, William, take good care of every- 
thing, for you may never see me again. Somehow I feel like some- 
thing's going to happen to me. Don't whip Kalph while I'm gone — 
the poor boy aint well — he looks right pekid — and when you whipped 
Carl the other day the marks were all over his little legs." She 
always looks for marks — the little willows are soft as broom straws, but 
she is bound to find a faint streak or two, and there's a tear for every 
mark. 

''William, the buttons are all right on your shirts. Feed the little 
chickens till I come back. I think the buntin hen is setting some- 
where, and there's six eggs in my drawer that old Browny laid on my 
bed. If the children get sick you must telegraph me." "And if I 
get sick myself," said I, inquiringly — "Why there's the medicine in 
the cabinet," said she, "and you musent forget to water my pot-plants. 
I told Mr. Freeman to look after you and the boys, and Mrs. Freeman 
will keep an eye on the girls. Goodbye. Don't you cut the hams. I 
want them for company, and don't go in the locked pantry." I reckon 
she must have taken the key off with her, for we can't find it. "Good- 
bye — take care of Bows." She kissed us all round and choked up a 
little and dropped a few tears and said she was ready. I looked at the 
clock and told her we could barely make it — five miles in an hour and 
five minutes, and the road muddy and the mule slow. She said she 
had never been left by the train in her life, and she didn't think she 
would be too late. I pressed the old mule through mud and slop, up 
hill and down hill. She was afraid of that mule, and when I larruped 
him she told me not to. Then he would put on the breaks, and she 
declared she would be left if I dident drive faster. We dident say 
much but leaned forward and pressed forward in solemn energy as if 
the world hung upon the crisis. When we got within half a mile of 
town the whistle blowed away down the road and we had a slick hill 
to clime. I larroped heavily and clucked every step of the way, and 
we made the trip just in time to be left. The train moved off right 
before us. It didn't seem to care a darn. We gazed at it with feel- 
ings of sublime despair. Mrs. Arp was looking dreamily away oft 
into space when I ventured to remark, "shall we go back?" She 
quietly pointed to the St. James and replied, "hotel." 

I saw her and little Jessie comfortably quartered in a nice room 



88 The Farm and The Fireside. 

with a cheerful fire. Mr. Hoss, the landlord, was kind and sympa- 
thetic and promised she should not be left by the morning train, and 
so bidding them a sad goodbye, I returned to my bairns. Take it all in 
all it was a big thing — a mighty big thing at my house. I'm poking 
around now hunting for consolation. She knows I'm desolate and is 
sorter glad of it. I know she is homesick already but she wont own 
it. She would stay away a whole year, before she would own it. She 
wants me to beg her to come back soon, and I won't, for she left her 
other little darling with me, and he will bring her. I've half a mind 
to drop her a postal card and say: ''Carl is not well, but don't be 
alarmed about him," and then go to meet her on the first train that 
could bring her, for I know she would be there. It does look like a 
woman with ten children wouldent be so foolish about one of them, 
but there's no discount on a mother's anxiety. Her last command 
was, "keep Carl with you all the time, and tuck the cover under him 
good at night, bless his little heart." I wonder what would become of 
children if they didn't have a parent to spur 'em up. In fact, it takes 
a couple of parents to keep things straight at my house. Yesterday the 
gray mule broke open the gate and let the cow and calf together. Carl 
left open another gate and the old sow got in the garden. Another 
boy has got a felon on his finger, and whines around and says his ma 
could cure it if she was here. He can't milk now, and so I thought 
I would try it, but old Bess wouldn't let nary drop down for me. I 
squeezed and pulled and tugged at her until she got mad and sud- 
denly lifted her foot in my lap and set it down in the bucket, where- 
upon I forgot my equlibrium, and when I got up I gave old Bess a 
satisfactory kick in the side and departed those coasts in great humility. 
It's not my forte to milk a cow. The wind blew over moi'e trees 
across my fences. The clock run down. Two lamp chimneys 
bursted. The fire popped out and burnt a hole in the carpet while 
we were at supper, and everything is going wrong just because Mrs. 
Arp's gone. 

It's mighty still, and solemn, and lonely around hsre now. Lonely 
aint the word, nor howlin' wilderness. There aint any word to express 
the goneness and desolation that we feel. There is her vacant chair 
in the corner — 



The Farm and The Fireside. 89 

Yes, the rocker still is sitting 

Just where she was ever knitting — 
Knitting for the bairns she bore. 

And now the room seems sad and dreary, 

And my soul is getting weary, 
And my heart is sick and sore — and so forth. 

The dog goes whining round — the malteese cats are mewing and the 
children look lost and droopy. But we'll get over it in a day or two, 
may be, and then for a high old time. 



90 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XVI. 



The Voice of Spring. 

Hark, I hear a bluebird sing, 
And that's a sign of coming spring. 
The bull-frog bellers in the ditches, 
He's throwed away his winter britches. 
The robin is bobbin around so merry, 
I reckon he's drunk on a China berry. 
The hawk for infant chickens watcheth, 
And 'fore you know it one he cotcheth. 
The lizzard is sunning himself on a rail; 
The lamb is shaking his newborn tail. 
The darkey is plowing his stubborn mule, 
And gaily hollers, "gee, you fool." 
King Cotton has unfurled his banner. 
And scents the air with sweet guanner. 
The day grows long — the night's declinmg. 
The Indian summer's sun is shining, 
The smoking hills are now on fire. 
And every night it's climbing higher. 
The water warm, the weather fine. 
The time has come for hook and line ; 
Adown the creek, around the ponds. 
Are gentlemen and vagabonds. 
And all our little dirty sinners 
Are digging bait and catching minners. 
The dogwood buds are now a-swelling. 
And yaller jonquills sweet are smelling; 
The little busy bees are humming, 
And everything says spring is coming. 

It has been a hard old winter on man and beast. Hard in weather 
and harder in fire and flood and pestilence, and all sorts of unnatural 
troubles. The horrors of hotels burning up, and theatres and circus- 
ses shrouded in flames, and thousands of poor people made homeless 
and destitute by the raging waters, and smallpox marking its victims 
all over the land, is pitiful, most pitiful, but I can't get over the shock 




COBE. 



The Farm and The Fhieside. 93 

of those poor little children who were trampled to death in that 
school-room in New York City. I can't help but seeing them all laid 
out in the room together, and their parents hovering over their little 
disfigured and mangled corpses. The distressing scene haunts me. 
There is a power of trouble in the world that we know nothing about 
— trouble that we who live in the country do not have. Here there 
are no storms, no floods, no fires, no pestilence, no scarcity of wood, or 
of food, or comfortable clothing. A poor man in the country is safer 
from all calamity than a rich one in the city. A poor man may 
lament his poverty and envy the rich, but he has no reason to. A 
man who makes a comfortable living on a farm has a greater security 
for life and liberty and happiness and long life than any other class 
that I know of. Cobe says he is getting along ' ' tolerable well, I thank 
you." Cobe is always calm and serene. He owns a mouse-colored 
mule, and has owned him ever since the war. That mule is one of 
the family and he knows it. The children play under him and over 
him, and between his legs, and the mule is happy too. Cobe has a 
chunk of a cow and a sow and pigs, and about enough old rickety fur- 
niture to move in one wagon load, and that's all Cobe has got except 
his wife and half a dozen little children, who live on corn bread and 
taters. And they are smart children, and healthy and good looking, 
though Cobe is called the ugliest man in the county, and I think 
enjoys his reputation. His face is of three colors and splotched about, 
and his mouth is in a twist one way and his nose in another, and his 
eyes are of a different color, and he is hump-shouldered and walks 
pigeon-toed, but he don't care. His wife says he is just the best little 
man in the world. He works hard, he and the mule, and always says 
he is getting along ''tolable," and finds no more trouble in sujDporting 
six children than he did one. He says there never was a 'possum 
born that dident find a 'simmon tree somewhere. Says he is raising 
his boys more for endurance than for show — for another war will come 
along about their time of day and he wants 'em to be able to stand it. 
Cobe is an honest man, and came from an honest family, and his wife 
did too, and their children are well-mannered and they are getting a 
little schooling, and my opinion is, that there is more hope and better 
hope for the country in that kind of stock than in the average chil- 
dren of the rich. They will make good, humble, law-abiding citizens, 
and they will work and produce something. When war or trouble 



94 The Farm and The Fireside. 

comes, it is the yeomanry of the land we have to depend on. The 
children of the poor are running this Southern country now. They 
are the foremost men in most everything. They are the best mer- 
chants in Atlanta and other cities — the best farmers, the best mechan- 
ics and the best railroad men. Some of 'em make splendid bankers, 
if they do spell hog with a double g. Grammar may deceive, but fig- 
ures don't lie. 

We are all mighty busy now in these parts. I can sit in my piazza 
and see over a good deal of farming territory, and the mules are mov- 
ing up lively. They seem to know the spring is late, and the farmers 
are behind time. But I don't sit long at a time, for the garden is to 
plant, and the rose bushes have to be trimmed, and the flower beds 
dressed off, and the compost scattered around, and the vines want new 
trellaces, and everything got ready for a suit of new clothes. The old 
year is just now dead, and the new one is born with the spring. 
March used to be the first month and it ought to be now. I don't see 
what they ever changed it for. One hundred and twenty years ago 
our English forefathers took a notion to set old Father Time back a 
couple of months, without any good reason for it, and I think we 
ought to move up the clock and put him forward where he was. The 
spring is the new birth of nature, and is the type of our own resur- 
rection. I don't believe that everything that dies will live again, but 
I do believe that everything that is good and beautiful will, even to 
animals, trees and flowers. This is a mighty pretty world we live in — 
mighty pretty, especially in the spring, and for fear of accidents, I am 
willing to be a tenant a good while longer. 

"I would not live always, 
I ask not to stay," 

is a very beautiful sentiment, provided a man is sure of a better home 
when he quits this one. But another poet sung with more caution and 
content when he said : 

"This world is very lovely — oh, my God, 
I thank thee that I live." 

I reckon the majority of mankind are like the fellow who said he 
dident want to go to heaven if he had to die to get there. Many 
would like for the ages of Adam and Methusaleh to come back again. 
It wouldent do, though — it wouldent do at all, for if Jay Gould and 



The Farm and The Fireside. 95 

Vanderbilt and company should live a thousand years they would 
gobble up the whole terrestrial concern and crowd us all off onto a 
plank in the ocean. On the whole I'm obliged to think that every- 
thing is fixed up about right — ^I reckon it is. 



96 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



The Love of Money. 

Money is a right good tWng and no sensible man will turn up his 
nose at it. Money brings comfort and leisure, and Solomon says m 
leisure there is wisdom. A man who has to be digging away every 
day for a living don't have much time to read and reflect and rumi- 
nate. It don't matter whether he is a merchant or mechanic or farmer 
or a professional man, if he works hard all day he wants to rest at 
night. 

Money promotes domestic tranquility and that is the biggest and 
best thing I know of. But money ought to be hard to get, so that its 
real value may be appreciated — money has to be earned to be prized. 
If it is inherited or drawn in a lottery or won at games of chance or 
found in the road or obtained by lucky speculation in stocks or bonds 
or cotton futures, it goes at a discount. It is undervalued and don't 
stick to a man long. A fortune gained in a year rarely sticks to any- 
body. Luck is a right good thing when it follows along with labor 
and honesty, but luck by itself is a deceiver. * ' Trust to luck" is the 
devil's maxim. I knew a hard working man who was so anxious to 
get ahead that he stinted his family and invested part of his earnings 
in the Louisiana lottery for five years and never drew but ten dollars. 
He told me he had lost five hundred dollars that way, and every time 
he saw the list published of the lucky numbers and read about the 
lucky men who drew the prizes it fired him up and he tried it again. 
Sometimes I wish I3ncle Jubal and General Beauregard would tote 
fair and publish a list of them fellows who dident draw anything. 
But I reckon that would be so long and occupy so many columns in 
the newspapers they couldent afford it. 

It is just human I know to want more money than we have got, 
especially if we are hard run and living on a strain. I want more 
myself, and if I was to find a hundred dollars in the road I couldent 
help hoping that the owner would never miss it, and never call for it. 



The Farm And The Fireside. 97 

Just like a boy who finds a pocket knife and feels like it is his, but 
that sort of money is not as solid and satisfactory as money we work 
for. I know an old preacher who had ten dollars and his son had ten 
dollars and the young man went down to Atlanta and took all the 
money to buy some things, and he came across a wheel of fortune 
and saw a fellow win ten dollars just as easy, and so he was persuaded 
to try his luck, and shore enough he won ten dollars, and it hope him 
up mightily and he tried it again and won some more, and he kept 
on until he had won fifty dollars and become a fool, for right then his 
luck changed and he lost it all and his ten dollars and his daddy's ten 
besides, and had to borrow a dollar and a half to get home on, and 
like to have perished to death in the bargain. Well, he belonged to 
the church and they had him up and tried him and he made a clean 
breast and told how he was overtaken and tempted and how he went on 
and on until he had made fifty dollars clean. "And right there" said 
the old man, "is whar John's sin begun. If he had stopped right there 
it would have been all right but, like a fool he went on and on to 
destruction." Well, John wasent such a dreadful sinner after all, for he 
wanted the money to buy something to please the old folks. But 
money don't come that easy very often. I know a man who has been 
kept on a strain for five years working out of his losses on cotton 
futures. Sometimes luck runs along with a man for ten years and 
more and that makes him vain and he thinks his judgment is infallible 
and suddenly he collapses like Seney and Eno and Keene. No money 
is safe except that made by honest men. 

The rewards of labor are mighty good and sure. Here I set in my 
piazza and look over my farm and see the wheat and the oats all in a 
strut and waving so beautiful in the breeze, and I feel proud and 
serene, for I sowed that wheat myself and helped to prepare the land, 
and it is my wheat and my oats and come honestly and wasent made 
out of somebody else, and it does me good to cut a few choice heads 
and bunch 'em and take 'em to town and show the folks what I can do. 
It beats money made by luck all to pieces, and so does walking in my 
garden and digging the potatoes I planted and working them ever so 
nice and bringing them in the house to show to my wife and hear her 
say, "they are very fine." She never says much on that line, she 
don't, but a little goes a great ways with me. She never indulges in 
rapture; she never uses adjectives to any excess, such as lovely, 



98 The Farm and The FiREsroE. 

exquisite, splendid and the like, but I know what she thinks about 
anything just as well as if she did. I'm going to get her a mess of 
raspberries to-day, the first of the season, and I'll surprise her with 'em 
at dinner time. She likes that. Women like these little thoughtful 
attentions. They are like oil on the axletree, and makes the ma- 
chinery run smooth. But then there ought to be a little money to 
mix up with such things. Money is a good domestic lubricator itself. 
A man feels more like a gentleman with some change in his pocket, 
and he ought to always have a dollar or so just to feel of. It stiffens 
him up and keeps him from feeling like a vagabond. And woman 
wants some too. When a pedler comes along with tin ware, or a 
wagon load of jugs, or the Gypsies come along with lace, or the book 
agent comes along with pictures; and . besides it is such a dignified 
comfort to have a little hid away for the children when they are just 
obliged to have something to wear and don't want to ask papa for the 
money, for he is so hard run and talks so poor all the time. 

This is the money that goes for all it is worth. Money that comes 
hard, money that is earned. Even woman does not prize money 
when she has oodles of it and has every w^ant supplied. Folks must 
be cramped to be happy. They must have something to stimulate 
them. Something to provoke economy and industry and I'm thankful 
we've always had these stimulants at my house. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 99 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



CoBE Talks a Little. 

"Everything is adopted." Says I, "Cobe, you musent say adopted, 
for you mean adapted." ''Well, I reckon so," says he. "Everything 
is adapted. Everything fits to everything. There is that houn' dog 
a-runnin' that rabbit and the dog is adopted to the rabbit and the rab- 
bit is adopted to the dog. One was made for the tother to run. If 
there wasent any rabbits there wouldent be any houn' dogs. Boys is 
adopted to squirrels. If there wasent any boys there wouldent be any 
squirrels. If there wasent any chickens there wouldent be any hawks, 
for hawks is adopted to chickens, and if there wasent any chickens 
and birds I there wouldent be any bugs and worms; and the bugs and 
worms is adopted to the leaves and vegetables, and there is always 
enough left of everything for seed and for white folks to live on. 
Hogs is adopted to acorns, and if there wasent any hogs there wouldent 
be more than eight or ten acorns on a tree — just enough for seed; and 
hogs is adopted to folks, and if there wasent any folks there wouldent 
be any hogs. There wouldent be any use for 'era. I'll tell you, 
major, everything was fixed up about right, as shore as you're born, 
and most everything was fixed up for us. Hogs has got sausage meat 
and tripe and cracklins, and souse and backbone and sparerib and lard 
and ham and shoulder and jowl to eat with turnip-greens, and it's all 
mighty good and its all adopted." 

"That is all so, Cobe," said I; "everything is adapted whether it is 
adopted or not." 

" Yes," said he, "and I've noticed it for a long time, when the 
wheat is cut ofi* the land the grass comes up for hay, and if we cut it 
ofi" another crop comes up and keeps the hot sun ofi the land and one 
crop follows another, and if we make a poor crop one year we make a 
better one the next year, and if we don't we can live on hope and 
cut down expenses and work the harder to fix up, and some how 
or other or somehow else we all get along, and when there is a gap we 



100 The Farm and The Fireside. 

fill it up with something, and we all get along and nobody perishes to 
death in the name of the Lord, for everything fits and everything is 
adopted." 

"Well," says I, "Cobe, that is all so — not only so, but also, but 
there are a heap of things come along that don't seem to be adopted, 
as you call it. Here comes the army worm, and the grasshoppers, 
and the caterpillars, and all sorts of vermin, and they are not 
adapted, and what are we going to do with them? What are you 
going to do with snakes, mad dogs, and storms, and pestilence, and 
diptheria, and smallpox, and all such afflictions? Are they adopted 
or are they adapted, or what are they ? " 

*' Well, sir," says Cobe, *' I'll tell you. I havn't been troubled with 
them things yet, but if I was I know there would be some oflset. 
Something to balance the account. I never knowed a man to have a 
big trouble but what there was something to balance oflT the trouble. 
I never knowed a man to go to Texas but what he writ back that 
there wasn't anything to brag off alter he got there. The good things 
of this life are pretty equally distributed if we only did know it. A 
rich man haint got much advantage of a poor man if the poor man is 
any account. Some poor folks is bad stock and don't want to work 
and goes about grumbling. They is just like a bad stock of horses or 
cattle or dogs and ought to die out and quit the country. We don't 
send round the settlement to git a poor dog or a poor cat, or a poor 
hog or a poor cow. We want a good stock of anything ; and there is 
about the same difference in folks that there is in anything else. 
There are some rich folks that are clever and some that are mean — 
some grind you down and some help you up, but them who grind you 
down don't have much enjoyment. They are too mean to enjoy good 
health. They are never happy unless they are miserable. I'd rather 
be poor than to be some rich men that I know. My children have a 
better time eating simmons and black haws and digging gubbers and 
hunting possums than their children do in getting to parties and wear- 
ing fine clothes and fussing with one another and doing nothing for a 
living. There is nothing like work — working for a living and being 
contented with your situation. I love to see rich folks doing well, for 
they help out the country and build railroads, and factories, and car 
shops, and open up the iron mines, and I know that if everybody was 
as poor as I am the country wouldent prosper, and it looks like every- 



The Farm and The FiREsroE. 101 

thing was adopted, and we need rich folks to plan and poor folks to 
work, and they couldent get along without us any more than we could 
get along without them. I don't want their fine clothes, nor their fine 
house, nor their carriage and horses, and they don't want my little old 
mule, nor my bobtail coat, and so its all right all round, and every- 
thing is adopted. It don't take me but a minute and a half to git 
ready to go to meetin', for all I've got to do is to put on my coat and 
comb the cuckleburs outen my hair and wash my face and git a couple 
of chaws of tobacco and take my foot in my hand and go. I can 
squat down at the door when I git there, and hear all the preachers 
has to say, and thank the Lord for his goodness, and that is worship 
enough for a poor man, I reckon, and its all adopted. When I see 
fine things and fine people I'm always thankful for some favors that 
are pow'ful cheap considering that money runs the world, for we have 
got good health and good appetites at my house and can sleep well on 
a hard bed, and a drink of spring water is the best thing in the world 
to a hungry man. We haint got no dishpepshy nor heart burn, and 
nobody haint suing me for my land for I haint got any, and my wife 
can make as good corn bread as anybody, and our tables is a good kind 
and the old cow lets down her milk about right and can live and do 
well without being curried and fed up like a Jersey, and she under- 
stands my children and they understand her and so it looks like every- 
thing is adopted. I was a thinking the other day how much service 
this old coat Mrs. Arp give me has done, for if it had been a new one 
I would have been afeerd of it, but I've wore it now for six months, 
and its good yet, and the children have wore the old clothes she give 
them, and they are all adopted, and now, major, if you have got a 
chaw or two of that good tobacco you always have I want a bite or 
two, for that is one thing that I like better than poor folks' tobaccer. 
Its one thing that I think is a leetel better adopted than anything else. 
At least I like it better." 

Cobe got his tobacco and flanked his little mule with his heelless 
shoes and galloped away in peace. If he is not adapted, I know he 
feels adopted. Cobe has peculiar ideas and a peculiar language. He 
always says that thunder killed a man, and when I told him that it 
was lightning he said, " Well, I know they say it is lightning, but IVe 
always noticed that when it strikes a tree or a man or a mule the thun- 



102 The Farm and The Fireside. 

der and the lightning comes all in a bunch, and you can't tell tother 
from which." *'But, Cobe," says I, "when a gun shoots, the noise 
don't hurt anything ; it is the shot." " Just so," says he, " but there 
is no shot about this thunder business." 



The Farm and The Fireside. 103 



CHAPTER XIX. j 

The Ups and Do\yns of Farming. 

I never could write like a school-master, and now my fingers are 
all in a twist and I am as nervous as a woman with the neuralgia. 
Me and my hopeful boy set out yesterday morning to cut an acre of 
second-crop clover, for these lazy niggers round here wanted a dollar 
a day and board, and I wouldn't give it, and so me and him under- 
took the job for our vittles alone, and he had a good mowing-blade 
and I rigged up an old scythe that belonged to a wheat-cradle, and it 
was about six feet long aad took a sweep accordin', and the clover was 
rank and mixed up with morning glories, and for the first ten minutes 
it looked like we would just walk through it like one of McCormick's 
reapers; but you see, that kind of work brought into play a new set of 
nerves and muscles that hadent been used in a long time, for mowin' 
clover with a long blade is an irregular, side-wipin' business that 
swings a man in all sorts of horrizontal attitudes, for sometimes he 
don't put on enough power for the reach of his blade, and then again 
he puts on a little too much and it comes round with a jerk (hat twists 
him up like a corkscrew, and so the first thing I knew I was blowin' 
worse than a tired steer and my shirt stuck to me and my heart was 
beating like a muffled drum, and I rather look back at what I had cut 
than ahead of me what I hadn't. But I was too proud to surrender, 
for, though I say it myself, there*s grit in me, and ever and anon it 
shows itself, under peculiar circumstances. I heaved ahead of my boy 
with my long-sweepin' simiter, that give me time to stop and git my 
wind and wait for my palpitatin' bosom to quit thumpin', and then I 
would rally my wastin' forces and go it again until I couldent go it 
any longer. My boy was as willing to quit as I was, for the sun was 
hot and the air was close, and, I say now after due reflection it was 
the hardest morning's work I ever did, and I'm not for hire to repeat 
it at a dollar a day or any other insignificant reward, for it has twisted 
me out of all decent shape and I go about hump-shouldered and sway- 



104 The Farm and The Fireside. 

backed aud as sore all over as if I had been beat with a thrash-pole. 
I don't think I would have made such a fool of myself, but you see 
some of my wife's female relations had come a long ways to see us 
and all the family paraded over to the clover held like a general and 
his staff, and as they stood around I put on as much style as possible 
in swingin' my blade and could hear 'em admiring us how gracefully 
and easily we handled the instruments, when the truth was we had 
mighty nigh mowed ourselves to death and saved the king of terrors 
the job. 

What a power of influence these female smiles do have upon us. 
What undertaking is there that we will not undertake if they will 
stand by and look on and encourage. Why sir, I have thought in 
moments of enthusiasm that if my w^ife, Mrs. Arp, was to unfold her 
angelic wrings and soar away to Chimborazoes top, and call me with a 
heavenly smile, I'd go too if I could. I wish they were all rich, for 
these two traits about w^oman have always struck me. They can live 
on less when they are obliged to, and make a little go a heap further 
than the men, but when money is handy they can spend more and 
take more satisfaction in gettin' rid of it than anybody. 

1 read the other day in a farming paper that moles dident do any 
harm, but on the contrary they did good in eating up bugs and worms; 
well, I caught one on the first day of this month, a nice, slick, fat 
fellow; and as my folks had been making an April fool of me all day, 
I just emptied the sugar bowl and sliut the sweet little innocent up in 
there. Mrs. Arp is a dignified Avoman, especially at the table. She 
takes her seat the last of all and after grace she arranges the cups in 
the saucers, and the next thing is to put in the sugar and cream and 
give it a little stir with a spoon. Mrs. Arp is afraid of rats, and so 
when she stretched forth her sweet little hand and removed the sugar 
dish top the varmint rose suddenly to a perpendicular position, and 
stuck his red snout just above the top edge. She saw him — I know she 
did from the way she done. Anticipating a catastrophy, I had slipped 
around to the rear and reached her just in time to receive her in my affec- 
tionate arms as she was reclining backward in a riotous and tumul- 
tuous manner. Shutting up the animal again, I departed those coasts, 
and it took me two days to mole-ify her lacerated feelings and make 
things calm and serene. The next morning I turned him loose in the 
garden, and before night he had run his under-ground railroad right 



The Farm and The Fireside. 105 

under a row of peas that was about tea inches high, and cut the peas 
from the seed, and the tops was lying flat and wilted, like a cabbage 
plant whep the cut worms find it. 

Farmin' is a good deal like fishin'. Every time you start out you 
can just see yourself catchin' *em; but after try in' every hole in the 
creek you go home sorrowfully, with a fisherman's luck. But we 
are not complainin' by no means, for we've got wheat enuf for biskit 
every day and light-bread on Sunday, and a few bushels to spare for 
them angels that's to cum along unawares sum of these days. We 
finished cuttin' the oat crop this mornin', and what with them and the 
clover already housed, the cattle are safe for another year. I imagine 
they look sassy and thankful; but as for me, I am a used up indi- 
vidual. Durin' harvest I have had to be a binder, and if you don't 
know what that is, ask Harris. The ends of these fingers which are 
now inscribin' this epistle are in a bad fix. Skarified and stuck up 
with bull nettles and briars, they are as sore as a school-boy's bile. 
There was sum variation to my business, such as catchin' young rab- 
bits, and findin' partridge nests, and pickin' dewberries ; but the romance 
wore ofi the first day, and by the end of the next my wife says I was 
as humble a man as any woman could desire. Its a mighty purty 
thing to write about and make up oads and pomes. The golden grain, 
the manly reapers, the strutten' sheaves, the song of the harvesters, 
and purty Miss Ruth coquettin' around the fields of old man Boaz, 
and *'how jokin' did they drive their team afield," is all so sweet and 
nice to a man up a tree with an umbrel, but if them poets had to tie 
wheat half a day in a June sun, their sentimentality would henceforth 
seek another subjek. I tried swiugin' the cradle awhile, but somehow 
or somehow else, I couldn't exactly get the lick. It wasent the kind 
of a cradle I've been used to, and I am too old a dog to learn new tricks 
now. 

The branches are getting low. The corn is curling in the blades. 
The mills grind a little in the morning and then wait for the pond to 
fill. The locust is singin' a parchin' tune. Summer flies keeps the 
cows' tails busy, and all nature gives sign of a comin' drouth. I don't 
like this, but am tryin' to be resigned. Before I turned farmer such 
weather dident concern me much if I could find a cool retreat, but 
now I realize how dependent is mankind upon the farm, and the farmer 
upon Providence. The truth is, its a precarious business all around, 



106 The Farm and The Fireside. 

and I sometimes catch myself a wishin' I was rich or had a sorter side- 
show to my circus. 

A sorry farmer on a sorry farm is a sorry spectacle. A good farmer 
on poor laud and a poor farmer on good land are purty well balanced, 
and can scratch along if the seasons hit; but I reckon a smart and 
diligent man with good land to back him is about as secure against the 
shiftin' perils of this life as anybody can be; and then if a man could 
have besides a few thousand dollars invested in stocks and draw the 
intrust twice a year he ought to be as happy as subloonary things can 
make him. Then, you see, he could send off his children to school, and 
visit his kin, and keep a cook and a top buggy, and lay in some chancy 
ware and a carpet for the old 'oman, and new bonnets and red ear-rings 
for the girls, and have a little missionary money left. If the drouth 
or the army worm or the caterpillar comes along he would have some- 
thing to fall back on and make him always feel calm and screen. I 
think I would like that — wouldent you ? — and I reckon there ain't no 
harm in prayin' for it as Agur did when he said, ' ' give me neither 
poverty or riches." Most every aspirin' man I know of in the towns 
and cities is lookin' forward to this blessed state. They work and toil 
and twist, and dodge in and dodge out, and do a thousand little things 
they are sorter ashamed of, with a view at the last of settling down on 
some good farm with creeks and springs and meadows and mills and 
fine cattle, and wiudin' up a perplexin' life in peace with mankind 
and communion with honest nature. No ambitious man becomes lost 
to such pleasant hopes as these, and the more trouble he has the more 
he longs for it, for its about the fittenest way I know of to get time to 
repent and make preparation for shuffling off this mortal coil. But 
to all such the outside investment is highly necessary. Even Beecher 
could not get along without it — for there are a thousand little leaks in 
farmin' that a man without experience can't stop, and without capital 
can't remedy. Why, only this mornin' one of my boys was driving 
across a bridge and the mule Joe got skeered at his shadder and shoved 
Tom over on the hand rail and it broke, and he fell in the creek and 
dragged Joe with him, and the wagon, too, and broke the tongue all 
to pieces, and the houns and the haims and the harness and the driver, 
and both the mules set into kickin' with the front end of the waggon 
on top of 'em, and the hind end up on the bridge, and you could have 
heard the racket for two miles without a telefone, and the girls ran 



The Farm and The Fireside. 107 

and screamed, and Mrs. Arp liked to have fainted every step of the 
way, for she said she knew Paul was killed as he fell, and kicked to 
d^ath by the mules and drowned afterwards, and it took two hours to 
clear the wreck and restore the wounded and passify the women and 
get everything once more calm and screen. Now, you see, there's 
some unforseen damages to pay and nobody to pay 'em, and all we 
can do is to charge it up to the mule. I do think that we farmers 
ought to have some protection agin the like of this, and I want to 
introduce a bill the next session, for they've been protecting manu- 
factures for 75 years and neglectin' agriculture, which is the very 
subsill of a nation's prosperity. I wonder if our law-makers who can 
save a State couldn't fix up an arrangement that would give everybody 
a good price for what they had to sail, and put everything down low 
that we had to buy, and then abolish taxes and work the roads with 
the chain-gang, and let the bell-punch run the government. Such a 
aw would give universal satisfaction and immortalize its author. 



108 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XX. 



The Family Preparing to Receive City Cousins. 

It's a thrilliu' time when a country family have invited thefr city 
cousins to visit 'em, and are fixin' up to receive 'em in a hospitable 
manner. 

The scouring moo and the floor-cloth and an old jar of lie soap 
and a pan lull of sand are not very elegant things to handle but they 
are useful and can't be abolished with decency. 

Everything around and about our premises is mighty clean and 
nice now. I wish it would stay so. I don't care so much about it 
myself, but it harmonizes with Mrs. Arp and the girls and the Script- 
ures. Pm afraid Pm a little heathenish about such things, for I don't 
like to live under such constraint — to have to scrape my shoes so much 
and shut the doors and hang up my hat and empty the wash-bowl. I 
don't like to see the ashes taken up quite so clean and so often and so 
much sweeping and scrubbing. I dou't think the broom ought to be 
set in the corner upside down nor the clean towel hid in the wash- 
stand where me and the little boys can't find it. I think I would like 
a room somewhere close about where me and the children could do as 
we please and enjoy a little dirt on the floor and throw the saw and 
the hammer and a few nails around and kick off our muddy shoes and 
mould bullets and pop corn and play horse and marbles and tumble 
up the bed and do as we please and clean up things about once a 
month. But there's no room to spare and so I have to endeavor to 
live like a gentleman whether I want to or not. Pve got an idea that 
a little clean dirt is healthy. Pm afraid that little tender children are 
washed and bathed too much. They get puny and pale, and delicate. 
Poor little things. It's very disagreeable to 'em. I never saw one 
that liked it, and that's pretty good evidence it's not accordin' to 
nature. Once a week is very reasonable, but this every night's busi- 
ness is a sin. They say it keeps the pores open, but maybe they 
oughtent to be kept open all the time. The surgeons say that a hand- 



The Farm and The Fireside. 109 

ful of fresh earth bound on a flesh wound or a bruise will cure it up, 
and I've found out that the best cure for scratches in horses' feet is 
walking in fresh plowed ground. I never saw a healthy child that 
didn't love to play in the dirt, and the sand, and make frog houses 
and mud pies. But still I don't go to extremes. I don't want 'em to 
get so dirty their skin hasn't got any pores at all and their little ears 
would sprout turnip seed. Everything must be done in reason and in 
season. There's some things I am mighty particular about — such as 
clean dishes and butter and milk and sausage-meat. I saw a woman 
milking the other day, and she pulled the calf away by the calf's tail 
and then wiped ofi* the cow's tits with the cow's tail and went to milk- 
ing. I thought there was too little water and too much tail in that. 

But to return to the preparations for the reception. The girls took 
matters in charge, and for several days the exciting episode went on. 
It was like clearing the deck of a man of war for a fight. The house 
has been scoured and scrubbed and sand-papered. Everything in it 
has been taken down and put up again, and moved to a new place, 
and I can't find anything now when I want it. The old faded car- 
pets have been taken up and beaten, and patched all over, and cur- 
tailed and put down again. They get smaller and smaller, which 
they say is a good way to wear 'em out without taking cold. The fur- 
niture has been freshly varnished with kerosene oil ; the window glass 
washed on both sides, and the knives and forks, water buckets, wash 
pans, and shovel and tongs brightened up. The hearths have been 
painted a Spanish brown, the soiled plastering whitewashed, the fam- 
ily portraits dusted, and the pewter teapot and plated castors and 
spoons and napkin rings polished as fine as a jewelry store. 

I surveyed the operations from day to day with affectionate interest, 
for it does me good to see young people work diligently in a meritori- 
ous cause; nevertheless my routine of daily life appears to be some- 
what demoralized. On the first day our humble dinner was dispensed 
with and me and the boys invited to lunch on bread and sorghum at a 
side table. The next day we were allowed to lunch in the back 
piazzer, for fear we would mess up the dining room, and the next we 
were confined to the water-shed to keep us from messing up the piazzer 
and after that I meekly prepared myself to be shoved out doors on a 
plank, but we wasn't. Mrs. Arp lectures me every day on manners 
and she don't confine her lectures to my private ear. The last time 



110 The Farm and The Fireside. 

we had turkey we had company, and when I asked a lady if she 
would have some of this fowl, my wife, Mrs. Arp, she looked at me 
indignantly, and said: ''William, that is not fowl — it is turkey." 
AVhen I asked the lady if she would have some of the stuffing, Mrs. 
Arp, my wife, observed sarcastically, " Of course she wiU have some 
of the 'dressing.'" You see, I thought that dressing was generally 
worn outside, but it seems that a turkey is not dressed until it is 
undressed. Well, she overlooked me when the pie was sent around ; 
she overlooks me a great deal, and when I ventured to remind her 
that I would take some of the dessert, she said she didn't have any 
Sahara, but maybe a desert of mince pie would do just as well. We 
took tea at a nabor's once and when the servant handed me a little 
glass dish of peaches in a waiter, I thought the whole concern was for 
me and set it down by my plate. But my wife, Mrs. Arp, she 
watches me pretty close and whispered to me to take some of the pre- 
serves if I wanted any, as the servant was waiting for the dish. So 
after awhile I was handed a saucer of canned peaches, and when I 
took one out and put it on my plate, my wife, Mrs. Arp, kindly 
requested me to eat out of the saucer. She has never got reconciled 
to the way I imbibe my coiFee, for you see I was raised to pour it out 
in the saucer, and when I try to take it from the cup it burns me so I 
have to give it up. Some folks will endure a heap for style, but I 
am too old to begin it now. I think I do pretty well considering all 
things and deserve credit. 

Delicate hints have been given that it ain't polite to set down to 
dinner with one's coat off, or eat hominy with a knife, or smoke in the 
parlor. The wash bowl has been turned upside down to keep us from 
using it. With this side up it holds about a pint and a half, and as I 
was washing my face with the tips of my fingers they surveyed 
me with a look of unutterable despair. When I raise my workin* 
boots on the banister rail for an evening rest they wipe it off with a 
wet rag as soon as I leave. I mustn't step on the purty red hearth to 
make a fire or put a back log on that weighs fifty pounds. They've 
put pillows on my bed about half as big as a bale of cotton and 
fringed all round like a petticoat. They are to stay on in day time 
and be taken off at night. When I'm tired and feel the need of a 
midday nap that bed was a comfort, but the best I can do now is to 
sit up in a chair and nod. The dogs don't understand the new system 



The Farm and The Fireside. Ill 

at all. Old Bows has been coming in the house to the fire or lying in 
the piazza for fourteen years, and it does seem impossible to break 
him of it in a sudden though dogmatic manner. Broom-handles and 
fishing-poles move 'em out at one door, but they slip in at another. 

I think the best thing I can do is to vamoose the ranch and take 
the dogs and cats and children with me. We can sleep on the hay in 
the loft and eat peas and drink water and swell to keep from starvin'. 
Maybe Mrs. Arp and the girls will take pity on us then and let us 
come back to the old regulations. AVhen the cousins come all will be 
well. I wish they were here now. 



112 The Farm and The Fireside. 

CHAPTER XXI 



Bad Luck in the Family. 

It's bad luck now at our house. One of those peculiar spells when 
everything goes wrong and nobody to blame for it. Saw the new 
moon through a brush, I reckon. On Monday two of my pigs, just 
littered, got drowned in the branch; Tuesday my shoats got into 
my potato patch; Wednesday a nigger was found struttin' around 
town with my equestrian walking cane, which was a present, and 
which I dident know was lost, and yesterday mornin', while Mrs. Arp 
was away, I thought it was a good time to cut little Jessie's hair off, 
for it was continually gittin' down over her eyes like any other country 
gal's, and so I shingled it all over after a fashion of my own, and 
when her mother came home I dident know at first but what she had 
took the highsterics, but I soon found out better without much assist- 
ance, if any, and all that day I had right smart business away from 
the house. I gently suggested that it was all owin' to the way she 
looked at the moon, but that dident screen anything, for you see she 
was countin' on showin' off the child at the fair, and now she can't. 
I am hopeful, however, that when the ambrosial locks grow out again 
our conjugal life will once more be calm and screen. Husbands ! 
fathers ! martyrs to wedded bliss, don't cut your little girl's hair oft 
without permission — don't. 

It looks like my bad luck all comes in a bunch. You see, I had 
dug a flower pit and rigged it up with shelves and put glass windows 
in the top of it, and Mrs. Arp and the girls had managed one way and 
another to fill it with geraniums and all sorts of pretty things, and 
some of them were in bloom and everything growing so nice and 
smelt so sweet and the women folks were proud of 'em and nursed 
them and watered them and showed them to everybody; but yester- 
day they discovered some little varmints, about as big as a gnat, were 
gathering on the leaves and doing damage, and when they told me 
about it, I didn't say nothing, but I thought I knew what would kill 



The Farm and The Fireside. 113 

'em, for I had tried it iu the hen house, and it worked like a charm. 
So I got some sulphur and put it in an old pan and set it afire and 
shut down the sash. Well, I have killed all the bugs., that's a fact, 
and the misery of it is I have killed most everything else. I'm not 
going to enlarge upon the melancholly consequences, but will just say 
I wish my folks would put on mourning and be done with it. I can't 
stand this sort of resigned sadness that's hovering over us much 
longer. If they would tear around and cut up awhile and quit, I 
wouldent mind it, but this drooping way they've got of going to the 
flower-pit like it was a graveyard is just a-killen me. They don't say 
nothing and I don't say nothing, so I have been reading history for 
consolation. 

Old Bows is dead, my loving and trusty friend, the defender of my 
children, the protector of my household in the dark and silent watches 
of the night. For thirteen years he has been both fond and faithful, 
and now we feel like one of the family is dead. Bows was the best 
judge of human nature I ever saw. He knew an honest man and a 
gentleman by instinct. He never frightened a woman or a child — he 
never went tearing down the front walk after anybody but the very 
looks of him. would mighty nigh skeer a nigger to death. When they 
had to come to our house they begun to holler "hello" a quarter of a 
mile off. Bows loved to skeer 'em, he did. He had character and 
emotions. Having no tail to wag (for he was not cur-tailed) he did the 
best that he could and wagged where it ought to be. Bows was a dark 
brindle. He was a dog of ancestors. His father was named Shy- 
lock, and his grand-father's name was Sheriff. They were all hon- 
orable dogs. He was not quarrelsome or fussy. I never knew him 
to run up and down a nabors pailings after the dog on the other side. 
He was above it — but he never dodged a responsibility. He has come 
in violent personal contact with other dogs a thousand times, more or 
less, and was never the bottom dog in the fight. And then what an 
honest voice he had. His bark was not on the C, but it was a deep, 
short basso profundo. We have buried him on the brow of the hill 
where he used to sit and watch for tramps and stragglers. Slowly and 
sadly we laid him down. Talk about your sheep — I wouldn't have 
given him for a whole flock. Sheep are to eat and wear, but Bows 
was a friend. It's like comparing appetite with emotion — the animal 
with the spiritual. But I am done now. Let Harris press on his dog 



114 The Farm and The Fireside. 

law. I've got nothin' agin sheep — in fact, I like 'em. Ever 
since Mary had a little lamb I've thought kindly of sheep, and I am 
perfectly willin' to a law that will exterminate all houns and suck-egg 
pups and yaller doggs and bench-leg fices. They are a reflection on 
Bowses memory. 

Yesterday morning about the broke of day a big clap of thunder 
come along and shook a month's rain out of the clouds in half an 
hour. My old friend Peckerwood says he's lived here 35 years and 
never seed the like before. It dident rain nor pour, but jest come 
down in horrizontal sheets, and the little branches turned into creeks, 
and the creeks into rivers and they swelled out of their channels and 
all over the bottom land, and tore down fences and bridges and 
water-gates and carried off rails and planks and watermelons and 
punkins, and the low ground corn ain't nigh as high as it was, and 
there's a dozen places in the farm where my nabors' hogs can walk 
into my fields and help themselves if they want to, and they 
always want to, you know, for I never saw a gate open or the 
bars down that there wasent an educated hog in sight some- 
where. I reckon a hundred people have told me I had the 
well-waterdest farm in the county, and now I believe it; but 
if you know of a man who has got one that ain't quite so well- 
watered, and is a mile or two high, and not subject to the avalanch, 
and I keep in my present humor, please send him along and I'll 
swap. 

Everywhere that a fence crossed a slew or a branch it's washed away 
for a dozen panels, and the big long logs that swung the water gates 
are gone, and the plank fences on both sides of the big road are gone, 
and now it takes all the hands and the dogs to keep the nabors' hogs 
back while we are repairin' damages, and reminds me of the time we 
used to guard the road to keep the small-pox from comin' to town. 

The meandering swine whose fourfathers ran down into the sea, 
have been perusin' the pasture and now its open to the tater patch, 
and so we've had to pen up everything in the barn-yard together, and 
the old sow has been samplin' the young chickens and the Governor 
(that's our man cow) tried to horn General Gordon, the finest colt 
perhaps you ever laid your eyes on, and this morning as I was a 
movin' about with alacrity, Mrs. Arp told me the flour was out and I 
told her to run us on shorts, and she said the shorts was out, and I 



The Farm and The Fhieside. 115 

hollered back to run us on meal, and she said the meal was out, and 
then I surrendered, and had some wheat and corn sent to the mill, 
and in about an hour Ralph come back and said one mill dam had 
washed away and the other mill had up the rocks a peckin' of 'em, and 
the creek was still a risin' and he couldn't cross any more, and I sent 
him to one nabor to borrow and they had locked up and gone a 
visitin', and another nabor didn't have but a handful in the house, 
and so here we are jest a perishin' to death in the name of the state, 
and if you and your folks have got any bowels now is the time for you 
to extend to me and my folks your far reachin' sympathies — ain't it? 

(A.nd Mrs. Arp thought it a good day to clean up the kitchen and 
scour up the pans and cook- vessels, and the girls said shorely nobody 
would come foolin' around in such wether, and they went to moppin' 
and sloppin' over the house, and shore enuf about four o'clock this 
evenin' p. m., in the afternoon a couple of nice young gentlemen 
swum their horses all the way from town to get to see 'em, and there 
was no darkey to open the door and my black-eyed Pocahontas had it 
to do, and she got behind it and hid and ax'd 'em in, and about sun- 
down I come home and told 'em I was agoin' to put up their nags and 
they must stay all night, which was the boldest venture on the least 
capital I ever made in my life, but they respectfully declined, which 
was fortunate for them, for although bright eyes and rosy cheeks and 
bang'd up hair may have some effect on a young man's heart, they are 
mighty little comfort to his stomach — aint they ? 

And it aint done freshin' yet, for the frogs are croakin' and the air 
is full of swet and the salt sticks together and the camphor bottle is 
cloudy, and I don't think Mrs. Arp is as smilin' as usual, and all of 
these signs hardly ever fail at once you know. 

Such is life and I can't help it. The bad and the good, the wet and 
the dry, is all mixed up together. I have spread forth my trouble 
and feel better. There's lots of folks in my fix, and I want 'em to 
know I sympathize. I'm sorry for 'em, and if they are sorry for me 
it's all right. As Cobe says, it's all right. We have got a power of 
good things to be thankful for. A little boy was drowned in my 
nabor's mill-pond yesterday, but he wasn't mine. The doctor passes 
my house most every day, but he don't stop. There was a barn full 
of corn and mules burnt up in the settlement last week, but it wasent 
mine. The poor house is just up the road a piece, but we don't board 



116 The Farm and The Fireside. 

there. I'm not a candidate for any office. I've got plenty to eat 
right now, and when we get tired of our homely fare we can just step 
over to nabor Freeman's and fare better. There's nothing like having 
a good nabor in eating distance — for we don't have to dress up nor put 
on any particular style about it, but just send up word we are coming 
up to supper and it's all right. Folks can't do that way in town. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 117 



CHAPTER XXII. 



The Struggle for Money. 

I don't hear of many folks getting rich. I don't know of but a few 
^ho are making more than a good fair living, and there's ten to one 
who are powerfully scrouged to do that. The majority of man- 
kind are always on a strain. Most of them work hard enough 
but somehow or somehow other, they can't get ahead, and a 
good many are in old Plunket's fix who said he was even with the 
world for he owed about as much as he dident owe. Some folks are 
just like hogs. They won't stay in one place or keep at one business 
long enough to make anything, but are always a rooting and ranging 
around for new places. I've noticed children picking blackberries — 
some will stay at a bush until they have gathered 'em all and others 
will spend nearly all the time in hunting for a better place. You can 
teU 'em by their buckets when they get home. My good old father 
used to say he never knew a man to stick closely to a business for ten 
years but what he made money — tnat is, excepting preaching and pol- 
itics. The one don't want to make it and the other can't keep it, as a 
general rule, for money made easy goes easy. When a lawyer gets 
five dollars for writing a deed he spends it before night, but if he had 
to make ten bushels of corn to get it he would carry it in his pocket 
just as long as he could. It's altogether another sort of a V. But 
it's all right, provided we are happy, and I don't think there is very 
much difference in this respect between the poor and the rich. I used 
to be sorter curious of rich people, and wondered at Providence for 
letting them have so much more than they needed, but I ain't now ; 
I've got more sense, for I perceive they are no happier than I am, and 
then, besides, when they begin to get old their grip weakens, and 
they build up colleges and churches, and orphans' homes, and 
establish libraries and other institutions. If they don't do that, their 
children get it, and as a general rule they scatter it all before they die, 
for it comes easy and it will go the same way. So it's all right in the 
long run and if it aint I can't help it, and I'm not going to grieve over 



118 The Farm and The Fireside. 

what I can't remedy. Honest industry and a contented disposition is 
the best insurance company for happiness in this world and will make 
a man independent of fine houses and fine clothes and the luxuries of 
life on the one side and court houses and jails and pinching poverty on 
the other. It seems to me that somebody has said something like this 
before, but I'll say it again anyhow. There's one thing I consider 
settled — my children will have no chance to waste and squander my 
money, for there won't be any left to speak of and it will be such a 
long division the fractions will be too small to fuss about. Time about 
is fair play, and if we take care of them in infancy and youth and 
spend the last dollar we get on 'em, they must look after us when we 
get old and helpless — and they will, I know. We've tried to make 
their young lives happy. I've mighty nigh wore myself out playing 
horse and marbles and carrying 'em on my back, and rolling 'em in a 
wheelbarrow, and doing a thousand things to please 'em, and thafe 
more than a rich man will do, who is all absorbed in stocks and bonds 
and speculation, and goes home at night with money on the brain. 
He's no father — he ain't ; he's a machine. The average family man 
is hard run. There's nobody perishing or freezing in this sunny land, 
and very few folks boarding at the poor house, but still there is a gen- 
eral struggle going on in the town and the country. Most everybody 
is in debt more or less, and what one crop don't pay has to lap over on 
the next. The merchants say that money is awful tight right now, and I 
reckon it is. I'm sorry for the merchants, for as a general thing money is 
their sole dependence. If he hasent got money he is a busted institu- 
tion, and that is where the advantage of being a farmer comes in. 
He can be out of money and still squeeze along, for he has corn and 
wheat and sheep and hogs and chickens, and don't have to wear store 
clothes to any great extent, and his children can wear their old ones a 
long time and go bare headed and bare footed when there's no com- 
pany around. Town folks have to dress better and dress oftener, 
whether they can pay for 'em or not. But it is a hard time all round 
to make a living, and I don't know exactly what is the matter. The 
average family is not extravagant. They understand the situation at 
home and try to conform, but it looks like they are just obleeged to fudge 
a little and go in debt, and then the misery begins. When the good 
man gets his mail from the post-office, he is most afraid to open it 
for fear of a dun. These darned little just debts as Saul McCarney 



The Farm and The Fireside. 119 

used to call 'em, hang around him like a shadow. The four D's are 
mighty close kin — debt, duns, death and the devil — and one is nearly 
as welcome as the other. A man who was born rich and managed to 
keep so or a man who was born poor and has gotten rich, don't know 
much about the horror of debt and hasent got much sympathy for the 
debtor class and is very apt to lay it all to their imprudence or bad 
management, but the fact is most of our rich men got a start before 
the war or built up on the ruins of it before society with its extrava- 
gance got hold of 'em. They couldent do it now. I know lots of 
rich men who, if they were to lose their fortunes, couldent start now 
and make another. They think they could, but they couldent; man- 
kind are too smart and too sharp now for an old-fashioned man to 
stand any chance. He would get licked up in his first experiment. 
Money makes money and money can keep money after it is made, but 
there is a slim chance now for a young man to make money and save 
it and keep in gun-shot of society. He can bottle himself up and 
remain a bachelor and turn his back on society and accumulate a for- 
tune, but the trouble is that most of 'em want to marry and ought to 
marry, and if he bottles himself up and spends nothing and dresses 
common he is not the sort of man the girls are waiting for. And so 
if he spends freely and rides around, he is apt to get married, and 
then comes house rent and servant's hire and clothes according, and 
he squeezes along and is always on the strain. There are mighty few 
getting rich now-a-days, but when a man does get a start, he can get 
richer than they used to. A half a million now is about what fifty 
thousand dollars used to be. But the average man is not going to get 
rich, and I reckon it is the common lot, and therefore it is all right. 
Nobody ought to distress himself about it, or hanker after money, but 
somehow I can't help wishing that our common people were a little 
better ofi. 

Let us encourage the boys — the rising young men and middle aged 
men. Let us pat 'em on the back and point to the flag and say, 
"Excelsior." It will help 'em climb the mountain. Jesso — but I 
said awhile back that this generation will not produce men as grand as 
our fathers, and it won't. There are no young men who give promise 
of equaling Clay or Webster or Calhoun or Crawford or Forsyth or 
Tioup or Howell Cobb or Toombs, in the days of his splendor, or 
Stephens or Joseph Henry Lumpkin or Warner or Walter T. Colquitt, 



120 The Farm and The Fireside. 

and a score of others I could name. I am talking about grand men — 
men who stood away above their fellows and adorned society like 
mountains adorn and dignify a landscape. Nobody is to blame about 
it that I know of, for it comes according to nature's laws and the 
decrees of Providence, and I reckon its all right. Those grand men 
of the olden time have served their day and accomplished their work. 
They moulded manners and statesmanship and great principles and 
patriotism and the masses looked up to them and learned wisdom. All 
this was in the days of Southern aristocracy, and these grand men had 
abundant leisure and dident have to be on the wild hunt for money. 
It was the aristocracy of dominion, for dominion dignified a man then, 
and it does now just as it did in the days of the centurion, who said: 
"I say unto this man, go, and he goeth, and to another come, and he 
Cometh." Dominion over men makes a man feel a responsibility that 
nothing else does, and this responsibility enlarges his moral nature and 
ennobles him as a gentleman and a philosopher. It is this feeling 
that dignifies judges and railroad presidents, and captains of ships, 
and generals in armies. They can all command men and be obeyed. 

But the time came in the Providence of God for a change. The 
masses of the people were under a cloud. They were over- 
shadowed, and the wreck of the slave aristocracy, together with the 
results of the war, made an opening for them and their children. 
Humbler men have come to the front and now run the machine. The 
masses are looming up. Overseers have got rich. Poor boys, who 
had a hard time, are now our merchant princes. The old lines of 
social standing are broken down, and one man is good as another, if 
he succeeds. Success is everything now, especially success in making 
money. Statesmanship has gone down. Great learning is at a dis- 
count, money rules the roost, and everybody knows it, and everybody 
is pushing for it. Money makes presidents, and governors and mem- 
bers of congress. We talk about a candidate's ''bar'l" now just as 
we used to talk about his eloquence or his service to his country. 
Everywhere there is a wild rush for money, and it don't matter how 
a man gets it so he gets it. 

Now, how can this sort of an age produce great men ? How can 
the young men escape the infection ? Where is any purity or honor in' 
politics or in the court house? When a man has to resort to deceit or 
hypocrisy or questionable means to support his family he loses his self- 



The Farm and The Fireside. 121 

respect, and when his self-respect is gone, his ability to be a great man 
is gone. He can't do it. No man is truly great who is not honest and 
and sincere and a lover of his fellow-men. A lawyer who lies or resorts 
to tricks — a merchant who conceals the truth may get rich, but they 
will never be great. I tell you the grand old men are gone, or going, 
and their places will not be filled by this generation nor the next. 
The next generation will be worse than this, for these people who have 
sprung up and got rich are going to get richer, and they will spoil their 
children with money and a fashionable education. They are doing it 
now, and by and by these children will get to be proud and vain and 
no account, and won't work, and finally go down the hill their father 
climbed. Stuck up vagabonds will marry the girls, and the boys will 
loaf around town and play billiards and drive a fast horse. A man 
who was raised poor and by a hard struggle gets rich, is the biggest fool 
in the world about his children. He came from one extreme and puts 
his children on the other. 

Nevertheless I am hopeful, and if I do sometimes take the shady 
side, I mean no harm by it. I am always reconciled to what I can- 
not help. The wild rush for a big pile of surplus money alarms me, 
for the older I grow the surer I am that the surplus will not bring 
happiness or be a blessing to the children. There is no security except 
in honest industry, and boys won't work whose fathers are rich. Old 
Agur was right. ''Lord give me neither poverty nor riches, lest if I 
be sick I take thy name in vain or lest I be poor and steal." But 
there is some comfort in this great change from the old to the new. 
The common people have a better chance than they used to have. All 
classes are assimulating and becoming more alike — more on an equality. 
One man is about as good as another now, if not better. The Joe 
Brown type is in the ascendant, and the humblest man has an equal 
chance for the highest honors. So let it rip along, for a wise Provi- 
dence is above us. * * * * * 

Cobe says he "aint makin' a blessed thing — no corn, no 'taters, no 
cotton, no nuthin' — and Willy is down with the new-mony, and the 
chickens all died with the cholera;" and then he gave a three-cornered 
grin and squeezed his tobacco between his teeth as he remarked, "but, 
major, it ain't nigh as bad as it mout be; it ain't nigh as bad as war." 
Then he stuck his heels in the little mule's flanks and away he went 
galloping up the road. There used to be a bureau called the bureau 



122 The Farm and The Fireside. 

of refugees and abandoned lands, and Cobe says if them yankees will 
revive it now he is about ready to jine the concern. Says he will do most 
anything except beg or steal, or go to the poor house. So when I 
feel melancholly I think about Cobe and cheer up. The truth is, we 
all borrow too much trouble. It is better to look back once in awhile 
and recall the vast amount of fears and forebodings that were wasted 
and maybe that will give us brighter hopes of the future. 

:^ ^ ^ >t^ ;i< >i< >i< 

There's a new lot of boys a circulatin' around us now. Grand- 
children have come to visit us and see the spring show open in our 
country home. Penned up for months in a little city, they have lived in 
a sort of prison home and feel now like school boys when recess comes 
— want to go out and rock somebody. They hardly took time to kiss 
and say howdy and shuck off their store clothes before they were off 
— dabblin' in the branch, rockin' the ducks in the little pond, fighten 
the ganders as they stand guard over their sitting mates, digging bait, 
fishing for minners, rollin' an old hogshead down the hill, breakin' the 
bull calf and every half hour sendin' to grandma for some more gin- 
gerbread. Here they go and there they go, while their poor mother 
jumps up every five minutes to see if they haveut got killed or 
drowned or turned over the hen-house. She had like to took a fit this 
mornin' as she looked out of the window and seen 'em coming down 
the big road with a calf a pullin' a little wagon with gum-log wheels. 
One a pullin' haw, another pullin' gee, and four of 'em a ridin' and 
all a hollerin' tell they made such a racket the calf took a panic and 
run away with the whole concern and never stopped tell he got in the 
branch and landed their gable ends in the water. 

Blessings on the children and the children's children. How I do 
love to have 'em around and see 'em frolic and ever and anon hear 
one squall with a cut finger or a stumped toe, or the bark knocked off 
his hide somewhere. What a pity they have got to grow up and see 
trouble and be sent to the legislature or congress, and there get a lit- 
tle behind in morals and money. But sufficient unto the day is the 
evil thereof. 

P. S. — Now is the time to plant potatoes. Be shore to plant 'em 
in the dark of the moon and then plant some more just two weeks 
later, and they'll be *'allee samee." I tried it last year. 

* * ^ * ;;< ;Ii 



The Farm and The Fireside. 125 

My little boy geared up an imitation bug last night, made of black 
cloth with horse-hair legs — an awful looking varmint — and slyly 
swung it before me on a stick, and I had like to have a fit, trying to 
knock the ugly thing out of my face. The little rascal just laid 
down and hollered, and the family ain't done laughing about it till 
yet. Mrs. Arp sometimes tells me I let them take too many liberties 
with the dignity of their paternal ancestor, but it's all right, I reckon. 
And I noticed the other night when the girls jerked her up from the 
sofa and whirled her round the room to the music of the dance, she 
submitted to it with a humility and a grace that was impressive. I 
like that. I like an affectionate familiarity between parents and 
children, though I want it understood that I'm the boss of the family, 
that is, when Mrs. Arp is away from home. I give 'em butter on 
their biscuit as a regular thing, but when I put sugar on the butter 
I expect 'em to be more than ordinarily grateful. 



126 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 



On A Strain. 

In a numerous family of eight or ten children and some poor kin, 
it is right hard to maintain them, and keep up with the nabors in 
style and appearances. That is, it is right hard to do it from the 
profit of a little farm, and so if a man can't make a little money out- 
side, he has to live on a strain. Folks are just obliged to keep up 
with the nabors, strain or no strain. The children must have as good 
clothes and the parlor as good furniture, and there must be as much 
good eating when company comes, and as good china ware to eat out 
of, and so on and so forth. But it is all a pardonable pride, for 
mothers are proud of their children, and their greatest pleasure is to 
see them look as well as other people's. Mothers have to stay at home 
all the time, and home ought to be made as attractive as possible. 
The men and the boys can go about and see folks and talk and joke 
and have a good time, and they don't care so much for show or orna- 
ment, but woman is penned up at home and has to look at the same 
old thing from morning till night and night till morning. I don't mean 
to say that she is a prisoner or unhappy by her fireside, for she is not, but 
her mind is active and her emotions are wide-awake, and it is her 
nature to love the beautiful, both in art and nature. Men too fre- 
quently forget this, and neglect many little things that would give the 
good wife and daughters pleasure. A man would let a worn-out curtain 
hang and hang until it was all faded out by the sun or speckled by 
the flies, and he had just as leave see it tacked up as hung from a 
cornice. If a window glass gets broken he is content to paste a piece 
of paper over the hole, and sometimes he won't do that, and the poor 
wife has to stick a pillow or some old rags in it to keep out the wind. 
I've seen the like of tKat at poor folks' houses, and I always blamed 
the man for it, for it is his business, and he could fix it up if he 
would. AVoman gets discouraged after awhile about fixing up, and 
then she becomes careless and sloven, and maybe goes to eating snufi* 
on the sly — on the sly at first, but after awhile as a regular thing. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 127 

She makes that compromise with her indifferent husband, and after 
that they just live along after a fashion, and call it life. 

In such cases there is a sad difference between the pretty, nice, 
sweet girl he married a few year ago and the wife he has got now, 
and he is more to blame for it than she is. Why dident he fix up 
some home-made pleasures for her ? He could make some cornice for 
the curtains, and a hanging shelf for the books, and he could buy a 
cheap chromo or two for the walls, and put a scraper on the door-step, 
and whitewash the fence, and plant out some rosebushes, and get a 
woodbine and a jessamine from the swamp and grow them by the front 
piazza, and then border the garden walks, and do a lot of little things, 
and keep doing them for her sake; and it would pay him well, for 
it would bring smiles and loving words, and above all, it would bring 
content and happiness. Woman loves ornament, for it is her nature, 
and why shouldent she? Our Heavenly Father painted nature in 
beautiful colors. He adorned the birds with plumage, and the fields 
with flowers, and the heavens with stars. All these costs us nothing 
to look at and admire. The best thing and the most beautiful things 
in nature are the cheapest. Riches can't buy them, nor hoard them, 
nor hide them from the poor. Air and sunlight, and water, and shade 
trees, and fruit, and flowers, and the sweet songs of happy birds, and 
the love of children, and good health, and refreshing sleep and the 
happy union of loving hearts — all these cost nothing, and are worth 
more to make us happy than anything else. Well, of course we 
must have something to eat and something to wear, but it is only 
the rich who don't have a good appetite and who have nothing to 
wear. All the poor folks in this region have enough to eat and 
enough clothes to make them comfortable, but I do know of some 
rich ones who are always troubled because they have nothing to wear. 
Some of them can't go to church for want of a new dress or a new 
bonnet or a shawl, or a set of jewelry as fine as their nabors. 

The most important food in the world is ■ bread, and it is the 
cheapest, and then comes milk and molasses, and meat, which are all 
within the reach of a workingman's purse. It is a wise provision of a 
kind Providence that the labor of one man, whether upon the farm 
or in the workshop, will feed and clothe eight persons and keep them 
comfortable — that is, eight dependent persons, as a wife and six chil- 
dren, and himself. When there are more than six children in a 



128 The Farm and The FrREsroE. 

family, the older ones are big enough to help — that is, unless the good 
wife has doubled on him and has a whole passel of twins, which she 
ought not to do if she can help it. But poor folks for children and 
poor folks for twins, and when I remonstrated with Cobe about it, he 
smiled and said: "It's all right, it's all right, and me and the old 
'oman ain't sorry nary bit, for the Lord never sent a 'possum in the 
world but what He planted a 'simmon tree close by." 

In this country most any laboring man can earn his dollar a day, 
and that will buy bread and molasses for a family of eight, and have 
fifty cents left for clothing and other things. It is mighty little, I know, 
and I wish it was more, but nobody need to starve or steal. The 
trouble is, that it don't leave anything for schooling, or for sickness, 
or doctor's bills, or any of the little luxuries of life. That misfortune 
is the man's own fault, when you cift it down, for he ought to have 
laid up something before he got married, and something more before 
the children come along so numerous; but we are all thoughtless 
creatures in our youth, and like Cobe, are relying upon luck and the 
'simmon tree. I can look back now and see my own mistakes, and 
sometimes feel like singing that old song: 

I wish I was young again, 

I'd lend a different life, 
I'd save my money and put it away 

To comfort my loving wife. 

Money is a right good thing for old age, and every patriarch ought 
to have some. It dignifies him and his wife to have a surplus that 
they can draw upon when the children and grandchildren come to see 
them. It is so nice to be able to help those along that need help and 
to give little presents around, and then when Christmas comes, and 
there is a family gathering, it takes money to give all things a pleas- 
ant direction. I've heard it said that an old man without money 
is without friends, and had as well be dead, but that is a slander upon 
our humanity. I know a number of aged people who are loved and 
honored, not only by their children and children's children, but by 
the community; and, although they are poor, their every want i& 
provided for. If a man raises his children right, they are not going 
to turn their aged parents off or neglect them. We have no fear of 
want at our house. There is no poor house waiting for us. We have 
done all we could for our children and they love us, and they are not 



The Farm and The Fireside. 129 

waiting for us to die either, so as to divide out the remnant of their 
patrimony. Our fondest ambition now is to always have a home, a 
gathering place, a sacred ancestral spot where, as long as we live, they 
will love to come, like pilgrims to Jerusalem, and for awhile be happy 
and make us happy. That is the highest and best earthly joy for old 
folks, and if they are too poor to entertain their posterity as they 
would like to, why, then the posterity must bring their rations with 
them and help the old folks out. That is the way to do it. I know 
a venerable man now in his ninetieth year, who lives not tar from me, 
at his old homestead, where he has lived for half a century, and his 
children are all married and gone but one, and she wouldn't leave 
him. I remember when he was a distinguished member of congress 
and when he w^as a statesman of reputation, and when he was a mon- 
arch in his rule over hundreds of slaves and dependents, and was 
loved and honored by them, and when his draft was good for thou- 
sands of dollars. But the war left him penniless, and all he saved was 
his homestead and a few acres of land on the banks of the river. He 
is very poor and goes about with tottering gait and trembling fingers, 
but he is grand and noble still, and never complains. Rich in mem- 
ory and in love for his race, it is still a feast to visit him and listen to 
his counsels. His children and grandchildren gather there once or 
twice a year and make him happy, and they always go laden with the 
comforts and luxuries of life — enough and more than enough for him. 
This is the bright side of our love and our humanity, and it is pleas- 
ant to think of it. 

Children, ''Honor thy parents, that thy days may be long in the 
land." 



130 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



New Year's Tkvie. 

I was discoursing Mrs. Arp, my wife, about that last night. You see, 
it was New Year, and I called on her. I dident have any swallow-tail 
coat and white kids, but I called. I had procured a bunch of misseltoe 
full of pearly berries, and I got the girls to make it into a wreath with 
some heliotrope blossoms, and sweet violets, and geraniums, and straw, 
berry blooms which they had in the pit, and as she sat by the parlor fire 
I came in and addressed her : "Fair lady, I come with the New Year's 
greeting. May it bring you joy and peace, and love and rest, and 
happy days. Thirty long years of devotion and arduous duty in the 
infantry service of your country entitles you to be crowned the queen 
of love and beauty. Allow me to encircle your brow with this 
wreath." She enjoyed that first-rate, and when the girls took off* the 
chaplet to show it to her, she remarked with a touch of sadness, ' ' It 
is very beautiful, but your promising parent has been promising me a 
tiara of diamonds for thirty years, and now he pays me off" in mistle- 
toe and flowers." "Solomon," said I, "in all his glory, had no such 
gems as these. You know, my dear, I have always desired to be able 
to purchase a diamond ring and breast-pin and a diamond tiara for 
you, not that you need any ornaments to make you beautiful and 
attractive, for all the gems of Golconda could add nothing to your 
natural loveliness." "Ralph," said she, "your father has got a fit; 
you had better throw some water on him." 

"But then," continued I, "the love of ornament is natural to 
women ; Isaac knew her weakness when he sent Rebecca the ear-rings 
and bracelets. The ear-rings weighing half a shekel apiece, which, 
according to the tables, made the pair worth exactly sixty-two and a 
half cents. It rejoices me, my dear, that I shall soon be able to 
present you with a full set of genuine diamonds of the first water." 

"When did you get so suddenly rich?" says she. "Have you 
drawn a prize in a lottery?" "Not at all, by no means," said I. 



Thb Farm and The Fireside. 131 

*'But a London chemist has just discovered how to make diamonds of 
charcoal. They have known for 20 years how to make charcoal out 
of diamonds, but now they reverse the process and pure diamonds will 
soon be manufactured on a large scale, and it is predicted, will be sold 
at about 8 dollars a bushel. When they get down to that price, my 
dear, I am going to buy you a whole quart and you can string 'em all 
over you and cook in 'em and wash in 'em and make up the beds in 
'em. I'm going to stick a kohinor in the end of the broom handle. 
What do you think of that, my dear, won't it be elegant ? " 

''No it won't," said she. "I don't want any of your charcoal dia- 
monds. Eight dollars a bushel is 25 cents for the quart you propose 
to spend on me. I wouldn't be so extravagant if I were you. No I 
thank you. Isaac spent more than that on Kebecca, and didn't hurt 
himself. Buy me a carriage and horses and I'll do without the dia- 
monds. They were intended for homely folks, and I am so beautiful 
and lovely I don't need them. Suppose you try me with a pearl neck- 
lace. I reckon your London man is not making pearls out of char- 
coal, is he ? " 

"Why, that's an old trick," said I. "Parisian jewelers have them 
at fifty cents a string and you can't tell them from the genuine. 
What does it matter if they are cheap so they are beautiful ? What 
are all the gems of the ocean to be compared to these fragrant and 
lovely flowers that cost us nothing? Beautiful flowers that "weep 
without woe and blush without a crime." I never liked golden 
ornaments, nohow, as Tom Hood says, it's ' ' bright and yellow, hard 
and cold," you can't tell it from brass without close inspection, and it 
"wouldent be worn as jewelry if it was cheap. I wish everything was 
cheap — cheap as the air and the water. Then we wouldent be tied 
down to one little spot all the time, but we would travel — we would 
go to Florida and California and London and Paris and all over the 
Alps, and see the pyramids and the city of Jerusalem, and when we 
got tired we would come back home again and rest. Wouldent that 
be splendid?" 

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Arp. "All that is very romantic, but it 
sounds very much like 'college talk,' as old Mr. Dobbins would say. 
Whenever he hears anybody gassing around or talking extraordinary 
he says, "Oh, that don't amount to anything. Its college talk." He 
says he never knew a college-bred man that didn't build air-castles, 



132 The Fakvi and The Fireside. 

■> 

and imagine a heap more than ever come in sight. We are right here 
on this farm and we will never see California nor the pyramids, and 
I'll never see the diamonds nor the pearls, and I don't care to, but I 
never like cheap things for they are not much account — so will fall 
back on the flowers, and when you have a little money to spare I want 
to send on for a few choice ones and a collection of seed. Do you 
understand ? " 

"I do, madam," said I, ''you are a sensible woman. You shall 
have the money if I have to sell my Sunday boots. ' Bring flowers, 
bring flowers to the fair young bride.'" 

I believe it's a good rule for everybody to attend to their own busi- 
ness. The other night I was reading aloud to the family about a 
feller who was standing at the forks of the road with an umbrella 
over him, when a flock of sheep came along and got tangled up, and 
so he thought he would help the driver by shooing 'em a little 
and waving his umbrel. An old ram dident like that and suddenly 
made for him and went through his umbrel like it was a paper hoop, 
and having knocked him down in the mud, he had to lay there until 
about a hundred sheep jumped over him one at a time. When he 
arose and took in his dilapidated condition, he remarked: "The next 
time I see a drove of sheep a-coming I reckon I'll attend to my own 
business." 

Next day Mrs. Arp, my wife, was fixing to grind up sausage meat 
and I ventured to remark that if she would salt the pieces before she 
put them through the machine, it would save her a heap of trouble. 
Her sleeves were rolled up and as she looked at me she assumed a 
chivalric attitude and remarked: "There will be an old ram after 
you the first thing you know." Of course I retired in good order, 
and now I can't make a remark about domestic affau-s without having 
that old ram thrown up to me. You see a woman has more liberty of 
speech than a man, for its mighty nigh the only liberty she has and I 
don't begrudge her the use of it. But then their five senses are more 
sensitive and acute than ours. In fact I think my wife, Mrs. Arp, 
has seven or eight, for she can come to a conclusion about things so 
quick it makes my head £wim, and I know she must have some per- 
ceptions unknown to the books. She can hear more unaccountable 
noises in the night, and see more dirt on the floor, and smell more 
disagreeable odors than anybody in the world. I won't say she can 



The Farm and The Fireside. 133 

point partridges, but a few years ago our nabor come over one dav 
aud said he had lost his dog, and my wife, Mrs. Arp, laid down her 
knitting, and says she: ''That dog is in our well. The water has 
tasted and smelt like a dog all day." We all laughed at her and con- 
tinued to use the water for two or three days, but she dident. Finally 
we give it up that something was wrong, and I sent a darky down a 
hundred feet to the bottom, and shore enough there was the dog. 

Well, the rats took possession of our house not long ago and we 
could hear 'em at all times of night ripping around overhead and 
playing tag and leap-frog, till it was past endurance. So I got some 
rat poison that was warranted to drive 'em away to water, and shore 
enough they disappeared and we were happy. The next morning my 
wife, Mrs. Arp, was snuffling around about the mantel-piece, and says 
she, * 'William, these rats are dead, but they never went after water 
— they are all in these walls." Well, we dident pay much attention 
until next day, when some of the family thought there was a very 
slight taint in the atmosphere. We waited another day, and then had 
to take down the mantel-piece and found six dead ones behind it as 
big as young squirrels, and we have mighty nigh tore the house all to 
pieces hunting for the rest of 'em. Fact is, we had to quit the room, 
and it's just gittin' so now we can live in it. There's no fooling such 
a nose with fraudulent combinations. If a man ventures to take a 
little something for his stomach's sake and his often infirmities, she can 
tell what kind of medicine it was by the time he gets to the front 
gate, which to say the least of it is very inconvenient. 



134 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXV. 



Old Things Are Passing Away and All Things Have Become 

New. 

That is the way it used to be in Scripture times, and it is the same 
way now. I wonder what were their old things? In those primitive days 
there were not very many things of any kind — not much invention or 
contrivance — no steamboats, or steam cars, or telegraphs, or telephones, 
or sewing machines, or telescopes, or spectacles, or cookiug stoves, or 
reaping machines, or threshing machines, or patent plows, or cotton 
factories, or wool carders, or printed books, or the like. But still I 
suppose they did improve some, and shook off the old ways of living, 
and cooking, and dressing. I was looking at a venerable patch-work 
quilt the other day that a good old lady made some forty years ago, 
and it was very nice and pretty; and right beside it, on another bed, 
was a printed one that was pretty, too. One costs days and weeks of 
labor, and the fingers got tired, and so did the eyes, and I reckon the 
back; and if the labor and time could be fairly computed, it was worth 
twenty-five dollars, and now one can be made for a dollar that is just 
as good and just as pretty. What a world of trouble our forefathers 
and foremothers had ! And yet they were just as happy and got 
along about as easy as we do. They dident want much and they 
dident have much. They had simple ways and simple habits. They 
prized what they made a good deal more than we do what we buy. 
When the good housewife put the last stitch in a woolen coverlet, or 
even a pair of woolen socks, she felt happy. Her work was a success 
and it was a pride. 

The otner day I received a present of a pair of socks, knit with 
golden silk, and the good old lady wrote me a note with her trembling 
fingers that this was the 865th pair that she had knit upon the same 
needles; that she began more than half a century ago and had knit 
for young and old, for silver weddiugs and golden weddings, and for 
weddings that were new-born — when the lily and the rose put their 



The Farm and The Fireside. 135 

first blush upon the maiden's cheek; that she had knit scores of pairs 
for the soldiers in the last terrible war, both in the field and in the 
hospital, and that she had never lost any time from her other house- 
hold duties, but knit only after her other labors were done. 

Well, it is a wonderful amount of work to think about. I know 
some venerable women, who are close akin and very dear to me, who 
have been working in the same way, too. They havent knit as much, 
but they have sewed and patched and darned for large households and 
never complained. It is a world of work for a mother to keep her 
children clothed, especially in these days when it takes more clothes than 
it used to. How many little jackets, and waists, and breeches, and 
shirts, and drawers, and petticoats, and dresses, and aprons, and socks, 
and stockings! When the great pile of clothes comes in from the 
washerwoman, and Mrs. Arp sits down beside it to assort out and put 
away in the different drawers, I look on with amazement, and wonder 
when she made them all. Why, it takes about sixty different gar- 
ments for our youngest child, who is only ten years old, and she hasent 
got anything fine — not very fine. There are about ten little dresses, 
mostly calico, and a like number of undergarments and stockings and 
aprons, but it takes work, work — lots of work — and the sewing machine 
rattles away most all the time. What a blessing that wonderful inven- 
tion is to woman, for society is exacting and progressive, and the 
families of moderate means could hatdly keep in sight of the rich if 
all the stitches had to be made by hand. As it is, we keep up pretty 
well — that is, we keep in a respectable distance — and our folks can fix 
up well enough to go to church and send the children to school. 

The old ways were pretty hard ways, and the next generation is not 
going to work like the last. I am glad that it won't have to, for it is 
a waste of time and toil to make a patch-work quilt now, or to knit 
the stockings, or to beat the biscuit dough, or to bake them in a spider 
with coals underneath and coals on top of the heavy old-fashioned lid. 
Our mothers used to do all that "when niggers was," but the cooking 
stove came along just in the right time, and now it is much easier 
to cook "when niggers wasent." 

Everything was hard to do in the old times. It was hard to thresh 
out the wheat with a couple of hickory flails. I have swung them 
many a day until my arms were tired, and I could find only a few 
bushels under the straw after a half day's work. But it made me 



136 The Farm and The Fireside. 

strong and made the wheat bread taste mighty good. I remember the 
first cotton gin that ' was put up in our county, and the long round 
bags we used to pack with a crow-bar, and how we used to wagon it 
to Augusta and camp out at night and hear the old trusty wagoners 
recite their wonderful adventures. It was a glorious time to us boys, 
and when we got back home again and brought sugar, and salt, and 
coffee, and molasses and shoes all round for white and for black with 
the wooden measures in them, and the names written upon them all, 
the family was as happy and merry as if Christmas had come before 
its time. I remember when a pocket-knife was a wonderful treasure, 
and a pair of boots the height of all ambition. But now a pocket- 
knife is nothing to a boy. He can lose it in a month and get another, 
and if he isent born in boots, he gets them soon after. 

" I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little windows where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn." 

Well, there was no glass in that window — only a shutter — and 
there was no ceiling overhead. But we boys kept warm under the 
cover of a winter night, and when the rain pattered on the shingle 
roof above us it was the sweetest and most soothing lullaby in the 
world. Folks would complain now if their children had to put up 
with such a shelter, and I reckon they ought to, for this generation 
haven't been raised that way and they couldent stand it. But we 
found out during the war what we could stand, and it dident take us 
very long to get used to it. A shingle roof and a plank window 
would have been a luxury then. But even war is not as hard as it 
used to be. Here is a road in front of my house that Gen. Jackson's 
soldiers cut out, and is called Jackson's road yet. He cut it out for a 
hundred miles during the war of 1812. In those days, when the sol- 
diers wanted to march across a country, they had to carry the roads 
with them. They had to make them as they went along ; but now 
the railroads pick up an army and hurry it along — everything is 
lightning now. 

Truly, the old things are done away. Farewell to home-made 
chairs, and home-made jeans, and the old back log, and the crane that 
swung in the kitchen fire-place, and to home-made baskets, and shuck 
collars, and shuck foot-mats, and dominicker chickens and old-fash- 



The Farm and The Fireside. 137 

ioued cows, and castor oil, and paregoric, and opodeldoc, and salts, 
and sassafras tea. Farewell to marigolds and pinks and holly-liocks, 
for there are finer flowers now. Farewell to simplicity of manners, 
and water without ice, and temperate habits, and contented disposi- 
tions. Farewell to abundance of time to come and to go and to stay, 
for everybody is in a hurry now — a dreadful hurry — for there is a 
pressure upon us all, a pressure to keep up with the crowd, and the 
times, and with society. Push ahead, keep moving, is the watchword 
now, and we must push or we will get run over, and be crushed and 
forgotten. 

So let us all work and keep up if we can. We must fall into line 
and keep step to the new music that is in the air. ''Old Hundred" 
is gone, and "Sweet Home," and "Kathleen Mavourneen," and 
" Billy in the Low-grounds," and now it is something else that passeth 
comprehension. But there is no use in complaining about what we 
cannot help, for some things are better, even if others are worse. We 
can still do our duty and put on the brakes for our children. We 
can tell them to go slow and go sure. Be honest. Money is a good 
thing, but money gained by fraud or by luck will do no good. Money 
earned by honest, diligent labor is the only kind that will stick to a 
man and do good. Money is a social apology for lack of brains or 
lack of education or graceful manners, but it is no apology for lack of 
honesty or good principles. Make money, save money, but not at the 
sacrifice of self respect or the respect of others. Some things pay in 
the short run and for a little while, but honesty and truth and dili- 
gence pay in the long run, and that is the run we have to die by. 
Folks differ about religion and politics, but all mankind agree on this. 
It is old-fashioned talk, I know, but some old-fashioned things are 
good yet. I have even got respect for my rheumatism, for it has 
stuck by me like a friend for a long time, and is nearly the only dis- 
ease that has not changed its name and its pain since I was a boy. 



138 The Farm and The Fieeslde. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



The Country. 

I have now been farming six years, and, take it all in all, I like it 
better than anything else that I have tried. They say that a rolling 
stone gathers no moss, and a man who is Jack-at-all-trades is good at 
none ; but I don't regret what I have learned about merchandise and 
carpentering and law, for my experience in these different pursuits has 
broadened my views and enlarged my charity and give me a better 
knowledge of human nature than I would have learned by running a 
bee-line all my life. A man is happier if he acquires a variety of 
knowledge, but it is fortunate for mankind that some folks get 
absorbed in one thing and pursue it diligently, and develop and inx, 
prove and invent, until they bring it to protection. A wise Provi- 
dence has created just such men in all ages, and the world is indebted 
to them more than to any other class for its progress in art and science. 
Still, I am satisfied that the Germans have overdone this thing. A 
German father will pick out a trade or a profession for his boy before 
he is in his teens, and will drive him into it whether he likes it or not, 
and keep him at it about fourteen hours in a day until he is twenty- 
one. The best music teacher and one of the finest musicians I ever 
saw, told me he never liked it, and the unwilling pursuit of it 
withered all his youth. He had a taste for mathematics, and wanted 
to be an engineer and build railroads and bridges; but the door was 
shut in his face. We had a Belgian civil engineer at Rome who stood 
at the top of his profession, but he didn't know anything outside of it. 
He didn't know a mule's parentage until I told him. When he saw 
cotton in the field for the first time, he said he thought it grew on the 
cotton-wood tree, and he asked me what kind of a plant silk grew on. 
Outside of his calling he had but little more sense than an idiot. He 
reminds me of a feller that Jules Verne wrote about. A compiler of 
Logarithms had offered ten thousand dollars reward to anybody who 
could find a mistake in any of his figures, and so this feller, ''Polan- 



The Farm and The FniEsroE. 139 

der," set about on logs and stumps from day to day doing all the sums 
over in his head, and one day the tide rose on him and the alligators 
came arcmnd him and were just about to grab him, when he suddenly 
flourished his umbrella and exclaimed, "I've found it! I've found it! 
and the ten thousand dollars are mine !" I like to see a man earnest 
in his profession or business, but a man oughtn't to become so absorbed 
as to let the alligators eat him up. These over-earnest men sometimes 
accomplish great things, but they are not much account to their 
families. A woman had just as well marry a machine, for she has no 
husband, and 'her children have no father, and he is a nabor to nobody. 
There is no good sense in burning midnight oil. It is contrary to 
nature. A young man can sit and study and rack his brain until he 
loses his appetite, and then he loses his health and prematurely dies. 
The stomach has got to be nursed, and exercise is the best doctor. If 
the stomach is out of order, the whole man gets sick. The stomach is 
the most important part of the human machine. Some folks talk 
about the heart being the seat of the affections and the emotion, bnt 
the heart can be diseased and the man not know it. It has no effect 
upon the brain or upon man's cheerfulness or hilarity; but if the 
stomach is out of order the whole machine is demoralized until it is 
fixed up again. Old Solomon understood it when he wroLe about 
bowels of mercies and bowels of compassion. From their good, healthy 
condition comes the best reward of labor — oat-door labor, on the farm 
or in the workshop. Good health, good appetite, good sleep — why a 
city nmn can't enjoy his dinner without whetting up his appetite with 
a drink, and that is a poor thing to grease the wagon with. It cakes 
and cuts and wears out the axles. City folks eat their meals more 
from habit than hunger, but country folks love to hear the horn blow. 
Seven-tenths of the people live in the country, but seven-tenths of 
the whisky and wine and beer is drank in the towns, and most of 'em 
drink it because they are not hungry and want to be. A right hungry 
man doesn't want whisky. He wants something to eat — something 
solid; and so, after all the fuss about the temperance problem, work, 
toil,' sweat is the best remedy, for a laboring man can't cheat his 
stomach with juices. Ben Franklin was a smart man, and he said 
that man was a bundle of habits, and he said also, that idleness was 
the parent of all vice. So it is best for a man to raise his boys in the 
country, where he will get a habit of work, and where there are not 



140 The Farm and The Fieeside. 

many temptations. A man can't throw off his habits like he does his 
coat. If contracted in youth they will stick in manhood and old age, 
whether they be good or bad. I've got an old mare that will quit a 
good pasture and let down the bars to go into a poor one, and it's just 
because she got into a habit of letting the bars down. Habits are 
stronger than principles. They are not cast-iron, for you can break 
that, but they are more like green withes and new ropes — the more 
you wet 'em the tighter they draw, especially if you wet 'em with 
whisky. 

A farmer's life is a pretty hard one in some respects, and not one in 
a hundred makes any clear money at it — money to lay up and put away 
for hard times or old age ; but the law of compensation comes in and 
balances off all its troubles. There is an independence about it that 
belongs to no other profession. The farmer belongs to nobody. His 
time is his own. If he can't get rich, he can live comfortably and 
raise his children to industry, and that is the best legacy in the world. 
It is very natural for a man to imagine that other people are better off 
than he is, and to wish that he had chosen some other business. Very 
few are content with their lot. Old man Horace, who lived 2,000 
years ago, alluded to this when he said, ''How comes it that most 
everybody is dissatisfied with his calling and thinks he would be better 
off and happier if he were pursuing some other?" But Horace, like 
all other poets, gave the preference to a country life. He says, "The 
city is the best place for a rich man to live in, and the country is the 
best place for a poor man to die in; and, inasmuch as riches are 
uncertain and death is sure, it becomes a man to move to the country 
as soon as he can get there." It is amusing to me to see how all the 
famous poets, who never plowed a furrow in their lives, go off* into 
raptures and ecstacies over rural life : 

"God made the country, man made the town." 
"How jocund did they drive their team afield." 
"Delightful toil ! There must be husbandry in heaven." 

And they write gushingly of fields and flowers and harvest moon 
and mountains and brooks and grand old woods and setting suns and 
happy birds and tinkling bells and the cotter's Saturday night. 

• All that is mighty pretty, and there is comfort in it; but there is 
mighty little fun in pulling fodder right now, or in carrying a load of 



The Farm and The Fhieside. 141 

it through the long, hot rows and stepping, like a blind horse, over 
morning glory vines and bending corn stalks. There ain't very much 
hilarity about getting stung with a packsaddle or fodder-blade or 
waking up a yallerjacket's nest. Farmers are not tickled to death 
over picking cotton all day as hard as they can pick, and thinking 
they will get 200 pounds and it weighed out about 150. There is not 
very much fun in getting up in the morning and finding half a dozen 
of your nabor's hogs or cows in your field, and having to run after 
'em all through the wet grass and then can't make 'em go out at the 
same break they came in. There is many a little trouble that these 
spectacled poets know nothing about, and never will until they try it. 
There is not much fun in any kind of toil, but it is the common lot, 
and we are all happier when at work than when sitting down or loaf- 
ing around in idleness. A man who was raised a pampered youth, 
and knew no wants and had no falls or hair-breadth escapes, no 
stumped toes or mashed fingers, no horse to run away with him, no 
colts to break, no bull calf to drive, hasn't been much of a boy, and 
will never be much of a man. He has no marvelous things to tell 
his little boys if he ever has any, which he oughtn't to have, consider- 
ing his fitness to raise 'em. 

When boys have learned to farm and built up their constitutions 
and settled their habits, why then is time enough for 'em to try the 
city and soar to more ambitious things; but the country is the place 
to raise 'em. I've a poor opinion of a boy raised in town to* strut 
around and then be sent to college to raise cain. 



142 The Faem and The Fieeside. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 



But Once a Year. 

Another busy year has gone — gone like the water that has passed 
over the dam — gone never to return. It has carried many friends 
along with it and left sad memories in our household, but on the 
whole it has been a good year to us all, and Providence has been kind. 
Now is the time to look back and review the past — to take an account 
of stock like the merchants do — a time to be thankful for what we 
have received, and to compare our condition, not with those who are 
better off, but with those who are worse off. 

It is a good time to feel happy, for there is something about Christ- 
mas that seems like a recess from a long year of work, and toil, and 
tribulation. Man needs just such a rest for body, and mind, and 
spirit. These periods of relaxation prolong life, both of man and 
beast. If it were not for the Sabbath we would wear out before we 
got old, and I remember reading a long time ago, about some emi- 
grants going overland to California. Some of them rested their teams 
every Sunday, and some did not, and the first got there several days 
ahead, and ^\ere in the best condition at the end of the long journey. 
But one day in seven is not enough — we want a whole week at the end 
of the year, and according to scripture it is a good thing to have a 
whole year in seven — a year of jubilee when even the land we till shall 
have rest and a time to recover itself and renew its wasted energies. 
Blessings on the holy fathers who established the Christmas holidays, and 
on the good men who for eighteen centuries have preserved it for us and 
our children. It is a blessed heritage and belongs to all alike — the rich 
and the poor, the bond and the free, the king and his subject. But 
these good old ways are changing and becoming circumscribed. Man- 
kind is growing too stingy of time. Christmas used to last from the 
25th of December to the 6th of January, and for twelve days there 
was neither work nor toil, nor official business, nor suits for debt, dun- 
ning, nor preparations for war, but all was peace and pleasure and 



The Farm and The Fireside. 143 

kindly feelings. The peasant was on a level with the prince, and the 
girls and boys wore chaplets of ivy and laurel and holly and ever- 
green, and it was no sin for them to take a sly kiss while the rosemary 
wreaths encircled their brows, for a kiss under the rose was an emblem 
of innocence and had the sanction of heaven, and love whispered 
while wearing the mistletoe crown was too pure to be lost or betrayed. 

I love the old superstition that clusters around this season of my 
joy and gladness. Long did I lament the day when ray childish eyes 
were opened and I learned there was no Saint Nicholas nor Santa 
Claus, no reindeer on the roof, no coming down the chimney to fill 
the stockings that hung by the mantel. Even now I would fain 
believe, with Skakespeare, that for these twelve days witches, and 
hobgoblins and devilish spirits had to fly away from the haunts of 
men and hide themselves in the dark pits and caves of the earth while 
the good spirits who love us and watch over us, nestled their invisible 
forms among the evergreens that hung upon the walls. It was pleasant 
to think that on the last day of the twelve the cattle knelt down at 
midnight and humbly prayed that souls might be given them when 
they died, so that they, too, might live in heaven and worship God. 
I hope the poor things will have a good time in the next world, for 
they see a rough one in this, and I reckon they will, considering what 
a splendid pair of horses came down after the prophet Elijah. Heaven 
wouldn't be any the less heaven to me to find my good dog Bows up 
there, all renewed in his youth, and to receive the glad welcome that 
wags in his diminished tail. 

How naturally we become reconciled to the approach of death. 
How tired we get fighting through the hard battle of life. I remem- 
ber when it was the grief and horror of my young life that sometime 
or other I would have to surrender and give it up, but I don't care 
now. Let it come. I would not live it over again if I could. I do 
not lament like Job that I ever was born, but still I have no desire to 
hold on and worry and struggle for several hundred years longer, as 
did the old patriarchs before the flood. If I was a good man, and 
everything moved along serenely I wouldn't care, but there's a power 
of trouble, and we make the most of it ourselves. Like David and 
Solomon, w^e keep sinning and repenting, and the memory of it haunts 
a man and cuts into him like a knife, and all sorts of friends come 



144 The Farm and The Fireside. 

along and clutch the handle and give it a gentle twist. Not one in a 
thousand will pull it out and put a little salve on the wound. 

I always thought it a pretty idea to weigh a man — to put his life in 
a pair of balances, the good on one side and the bad on the other, and 
let him rise to heaven or fall below it, as the scales might turn. I 
know it's not an orthodox doctrine exactly, for they say that one bad 
deed will outweigh a thousand good ones. Nevertheless, Belshazzer 
was weighed, and the Scriptures abound in such figures of speech. It 
will take miracles of grace to save us all anyhow, and it becomeo 
everybody to help one another, for the devil is doing his best. David 
committed murder, and Solomon worshipped idols, Cain killed his 
brother, and Jabob cheated Esau out of his birthright, and Noah got 
drunk and Peter denied his Master, but they all repented and got for- 
giveness, and if there's any difference between folks now and folks 
then I don't know it, unless it is that they had the strongest support 
and the least temptation to fall. 

But then, a man ought not to take too much comfort from such 
comparisons, for they savor of vanity, and vanity don't save anybody 
nor keep him from doing wrong. A man who moves along the path- 
way of life happily and serenely in the midst of cares and temptations, 
is a long ways better off than one who don't. A man who brmgs no 
sorrow to his friends and nabors lives to a better purpose than 
one who does, and it must be a blessed bed to die on when a man gets 
old and has no stinging memories in his pillow case. There is no 
goodlier sight in nature than a good man going down to the grave in 
graceful composure. I recall one who, not long ago, reached his four- 
score years and died. He was a model of that sweet decay that has 
no odor of dissolution. He was never a burden nor a cross, and to 
the last received his children and his children's children with a rejoic- 
ing smile. Would that I, too, like him, might go down behind the 
everlasting hills — not in a cloud nor yet in a blaze of glory, but 
rather like the sun when his rays are softened and subdued by the 
Indian summer sky. 

Our family frolic is over. The show of it and the pleasant hilarity 
of the occasion, with all the delightful surprises and rejoicings, passed 
away most happily, but the sweet perfume of love and kindness that 
Christmas brought remains with us still. It is more blessed to give 
than to receive, and the purest pleasure we can feel is m making others 



The Farm and The Fireside. 145 

happy. In the good old times Prince Rupert used to go round in dis- 
guise and find out who was needy and grateful and kind, and when 
Christmas came he distributed his gifts according to their deservings. 
It seems to me that if i was Mr. Vanderbilt I would like that, but 
maybe not. 

Then a rich and merry Christmas to the rich, 
And a bright and happy Christmas to the poor; 

So their hearts are joyful it doesn't matter which 
Has the fine velvet carpet on the floor. 

For riches bring a trouble when they come. 

And money leaves a pain when it goes, 
But evierybody now must have a little sum 

To brighten up the year at its close. 

:^ ^ -^ -^ -^i 

Pleasing the children is about all that the majority of mankind is 
living for though they don't realize it and if they did they would hardly 
acknowledge it. It is emphatically the great business of this sublu- 
nary life. We look on with amazement at the busy crowd in the town 
and cities that are ever going to and fro, and the most of them are 
working and struggling to please and maintain children. It i^ the 
excuse for all the mad rush of business that hurries mankind through 
the world. It is the apology for nearly all the stealing and cheating 
and lying in the land. One time a man sold me a Poland China sow 
for $15 and she eat up $5 worth of chickens the day I got her, and 
when I asked him why he didn't tell me she was a chicken eater, he 
smiled and said he thought I would find it out soon enough. He spent 
that money on his children and so I had to forgive him. Sometimes 
when I ruminate upon the meanness of we grown-up folks, I wish 
that the children w^ould never get grown, for they don't get very mean 
or foolish until they do. 

Now the biggest part of all this Christmas business is to please the 
children. Of course there is service in the churches, and the good 
pious people celebrate the day in prayer and devotion, but most of it 
is for the children. The stores are thronged with parents hunting 
something for them. The Christmas trees are for them, and all the 
dolls and wagons and tea-sets and pocket-knives and harps and fire- 
crackers and a thousand other things too numerous to mention. Why 
there will be five thousand dollars spent in this county this week for 



146 The Farm and The Fireside. 

Christmas gifts. There will be half a million in the State. There 
will be twenty millions in the United States, and it is nearly all for 
children. So, my young friends, you must understand how very 
important you are in this world's affairs, but you needent get uppity 
nor bigoty about it, for that spoils all the old folks' pleasure. 

Now, let us all imagine we are around the cheerful Christmas fire 
and talk about Christmas and tell what it means. Of course you 
know that it is the anniversary of the birth of Christ, and all Chris- 
tian people celebrate it. It is very common everywhere to celebrate 
birthdays. Americans make a big fuss over Washington's birthday 
because he was called the father of his country. My folks make a 
little fuss over my birthday and my good wife's birthday. They don't 
toot horns nor pop fire-crackers, but they have an extra good dinner 
and fix up a pleasant surprise of some sort. We used to surprise the 
children with a little present like a pocket-knife, or a pair of scissors, 
or sleeve buttons or something, but so many children came along that 
there was a birthday in sight almost all the time, and as we got rich 
in children we got poor in money and had to skip over sometimes. 
The 4th of July was the birthday of a nation and so the nation always 
celebrates that day. 

Christians began to observe Christmas about 1,500 years ago at 
Jerusalem and Rome. They had service in the churches and made 
it a day of rejoicing. In course of time the young people rather lost 
sight of the sacredness of the da^ and the devotion that was due to 
the occasion, and made it a day of frolic and feasting. They sang 
hilarious songs, because they said the shepherds sang songs at Bethle- 
hem. They made presents to each other because they said the wise 
men from the east brought presents to the young child and its mother. 
They kept up their festivities all night because the Saviour was born 
at midnight. The Roman Catholic church has observed these annual 
celebrations for centuries, and the Church of England took them up, 
and so did the Protestants in Germany and other countries. Christ- 
ians everywhere adopted them, and Christmas day became a universal 
holiday except among the Puritans of New England, who forbade it 
under penalties. They never frolicked or made merry over anything. 
In a great painting of the nativity by Raphael, there is seen a shep- 
herd at the door playing on a bagpipe. The Tyroleese who live on 
the mountain slopes of Italy always come down to the valleys on 



The Farm and The Fireside. 147 

•Christmas eve, and they come carroling sweet songs and playing on 
musical instruments, and spend the night in innocent festivities. A 
century or so ago there were many curious superstitions about Christ- 
mas. It was believed that an ox and an ass that were near by when 
the Saviour was born bent their knees in supplication, and so they said 
the animals all went to prayer every Christmas night. Of course, 
they might have known better if they had watched all night to see, 
but when folks love a superstition they humor it. If a child believes 
in ghosts they are sure to see them, whether they are there or not. 
Those old-time people believed that when the rooster crowed for mid- 
night on Christmas night all the wizzards and witches and hobgoblins 
and evil spirits fled away from the habitations of men and hid in 
caves and hollow trees and deserted houses, and stayed there for 
twelve days. 

i^ations have superstitions just like individuals have them. The 
Persians had their genii and fairies; the Hindoos their rakshar; the 
Greeks and Komans had all sorts of wonderful gods and godesses, such 
as Jupiter and Juno and Hercules and Vulcan and Neptune, and 
they built temples for them to dwell in. The more learned and 
enlightened a people are the more sublime are their superstitions. The 
uncivilized Indians are mystified and "see God in the clouds, and hear 
Him in the wind." The native Africans come down to crocodiles and 
serpents and owls for their gods. Some of the negro tribes take a 
higher grade of animals and set their faith in brer fox and brer rabbit, 
as Uncle Eemus has told you. When I was a boy we could tell the 
difference in the negro character by the stories they told us in their 
cabins at night; and good negroes always told us funny, cheerful 
stories about the tar baby, and the bear and the bee-tree, and about 
foxes and wolves ; but the bad negroes told us about witches and 
ghosts and Jack-o'-lanterns, and raw-head-and-bloody-bones. I used 
to listen to them until I didn't dare to look around, and I got up 
closer and closer to the fire, and when my brother called me I had to 
be carried to the house in a negroe's arms. But what about the ever- 
greens the holly and laurel and ivy and mistletoe and the Christmas 
tree ? That is a curious history, too, and it all came from the poetry 
and romance that belongs to our nature. Evergreens have for ages 
been used as symbols of immortality. The victors returning from the 
wars were crowned with them ; chaplets of green leaves and vines 



148 The Farm and The Fieeside. 

were made for the successful ones at the Olympic games. The poets 
of Scripture tell us of green bay trees and the cedars of Lebanon. 
Churches and temples have been decorated with them for centuries. 
Evergreens have always had a poetic prominence in the vegetable 
kingdom. We all love them, for they cheer us in midwinter when 
there are no other signs of vegetation to gladden our longing eyes. 

Now, children, these superstitions are all fancy, as you know, and 
are not even founded on fact, and yet it is human nature to love 
them. We are all fond of anything that is marvelous, especially if 
it turns out well for the good. We love to read the Arabian Nights 
and we rejoice with Alibaba who outwitted the forty thieves, and with 
Aladdin who found the wonderful lamp. Just so we rejoice with 
Cinderella for marrying the prince, and we take comfort in it, although 
we know it never happened. It is human nature to want good to 
triumph over bad, and on this heavenly trait in our humanity is our 
government and our social system founded. 

You know all about St. Nicolas and Santa Claus, and where that 
pleasant superstition came from, but the traditions of the Germans 
about the good Knight Rupert are just as good, and, I think, are 
more stimulating to the children. In every little village Knight 
Rupert comes out just after twelve o'clock, and nobody knows where 
he comes from. He has a beautiful sleigh and four fine horses, all 
dressed up in silver spangles and silver bells, and he dashes around 
from house to house and calls out the mother and whispers something 
to her and she whispers something to him, and he bows his head and 
wags his long gray beard and dashes away to the next house. You 
see he is going around to find out from the mother which ones of her 
children have been good and which ones have been bad, so as to know 
what presents to bring and how many. If the good mother says sor- 
rowfully, ' ' Well, Knight Rupert, my Tom has not been a good boy ; 
he is not kind to his sisters, and he is selfish and has fights with other 
boys, and he won't study at school, but I hope he will get to be better, so 
please bring Tom some little thing, won't you." She is obliged to tell the 
truth on all her children, and it goes very hard with her sometimes. 
So after Knight Rupert has been all around he drives away about dark 
and nobody knows where he went to. That night he brings the pres- 
ents while the children are all asleep, and sure enough Tom don't get 
anything. Now, that is what they pretend to believe, but of course 



The Farm and The Fireside. 149 

Knight Rupert is some good jolly fellow about town, and he is all 
bundled up and disguised and cuts up just such a figure as old Santa 
Claus does in the pictures. 

The year is almost gone, and all of us ought to stop a minute and 
think about how much good we have done since the last Christmas. 
How many times we have tried to make our kindred happy — not only 
our kindred, but our nabors and companions. As I came out of the 
Markham house, in Atlanta, one cold morning, two little dirty news- 
boys came running to me from opposite directions to sell me a paper. 
They are not allowed to go inside the hotels to sell papers, and so they 
stand outside in the cold and watch for the men to come out. One of 
these boys was a stout lad of ten years, and the other was a little puny, 
pale-face, barefooted chap, and although he was the farthest off, he got 
ta me first. I said to the biggest boy, "Why didn't you run? You 
could have got here first." He smiled and said, "I dident want to." 
''Why not?" said I. "Is that boy your brother?" "No, sir," said he, 
" but he's little, and he's been sick." Now, that was kindness that 
will do for Christmas or any other day. I gave them a dime apiece, 
and they were happy for a little while. Children, if you can't do a 
big thing you can do a little thing like that. I wouldent let the 
little ragged newsboys get ahead of me. 

We keep Grier's almanac at our house. We get a good many 
almanacs from the merchants as advertisements, but Grier's is the old 
standard and is the one that is always hung by the mantle. If you 
have that kind at your house and will look at the bottom of the last 
page to see what kind of weather we are to have this Christmas week 
you will find it put down this way: "Be thankful for all the bless- 
ings you have enjoyed this year and try to do better the next." That 
is a curious kind of weather, but it is mighty good weather. 



150 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 



Grandfather's Day — The Little Urchin of the Third Gen- 
eration. 

This is a most blessed land — where everything grows that man is 
obleeged to have, and a power of good^ things throw'd in just to min- 
ister to his pleasure. The summer sun is now ripening the fruits of 
the earth, and when I see children and grandchildren and nefews and 
neeses rejoicin' in their wanderin's over the fields and orchards, it car- 
ries me back to the blessed days of childhood. The old-field plums 
and the wild strawberries and cherries, mulberries and blackberries 
were worth more then than gold, and it made no difference who was 
priest or president, or how rich was Astor or Girard or any of the 
nabors, or whether Sal Jackson's bonet was purtier than Melyann 
Thompson's or not. What a glorious luxury it was to go barefooted 
and wade in the branch and go saining and climb trees and hunt bird's 
nests and carry the corn to the mill and leave it, just to get to run a. 
horse-race home again. I know now that those days w^ere the happiest, 
and so I won't rob my posterity of the same sort, if I can help it. I 
want 'em to love the old homestead, and I want children's children to 
gather about it and cherish its memory. What a burlesque on child- 
hood's joy it must be to visit grandma and grandpa in a crowded city, 
penned up in brick walls with a few sickly flowers in front and a gar- 
den in the rear about as big as a wagon sheet. But that's the way the 
thing is drifting. Them calculatin' yankees have long ago done away 
with the 'old back log' and the blazing hearth-stone and substituted a 
furnace in the basement and a few iron pipes running around the 
walls and a hole in the floor to let the heat in. All that may be econ- 
omy, but in my opinion a man can't raise good stock in no such way. 
They'll be picayunish and nice and sharp featured and gimlety, but 
they won't do to bet on like them children that's been bro't up 'round 
a fire-place on a hundred acre farm and had plenty of fresh air and 
latitude. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 151 

Pleasin' the children is about all the majority of mankind are livin' 
for, though they don't know it; and if they did they wouldn't 
acknowledge it. It is emphatically the great business of life. We 
look on with wonder and amazement at the busy crowds in a great 
city that are ever goin' to and fro like a fiddler's elbow, and eight out 
of ten of 'em are workin' and strugglin' to please and maintain the 
children. It's the excuse for all the mad rush of business that hur- 
ries mankind through the world. It's the apology for nearly all the 
cheatin' and stealin' and lyin' in the land, and in a heap of such cases 
I have thought the good angels would drop tears enuf on the big book 
to blot 'em out forever. The trouble is, that most people are always 
liviu' on a strain, tryin' to do a little too much for their children, and 
scufflin' against wind and tide to git just a little ahead of their nabors. 
Some of 'em won't let a ten year old boy go to meetin' or to Sunday- 
school if he can't fix up as fine as other boys. They won't let him go 
barefooted nor wear a patch behind nor before, nor ride bareback, nor 
go dirty, and so the domestic pressure for finery becomes tremendous. 
Jesso with bonnets, and parasols, and kid gloves, and silk dresses, and 
chanyware, and carpets, and winder curtins — and a thousand things 
that cost money and runs up the outgo a heap bigger than the incum. 
Generally speakin' this home pressure ain't a noisy one, but, on the 
contrary, is very silent and sad — so sad that a body would think there 
was somebody dead in the house, and so after awhile sumhow or sum- 
how else the finery comes, and thus for awhile all is screen. But the 
collapse is shore to cum sooner or later, and the children ain't to 
blame for it. Sumtimes when I ruminate upon the meanness of man- 
kind I wish the children never got grown, for they don't get mean or 
foolish until they do. Just think what a svv'eet time of it old mother 
Eve and Mrs. Commodore Noah, and aunt Methusaler had with thirty 
or forty of 'em wearin' bibs and aperns until they were fifty years old, 
toggin' along after their daddies until they were a hundred. I don't 
think old father Woodruff" could have stood that. When a man who 
ain't no yearlin' gits married, and ten or a dozen of 'em cum right 
straight along in a row, and by the time he gets on the piazza, tired 
and grunty, they begin to climb all over him and under him and 
betwixt him, and on the back of his chair and the top of his head, it's 
a little more than his venerable nature can stand. On such occasions, 
it ain't to be wondered at that he gently shakes himself aloose and 



152 The Farm and The Fireside. 

exclaims, "Lord have mercy upon me." But, then, the like of this 
must be endured. 'Tis a part of the bargain, implied if not expressed, 
as the lawyers say, and no man ought to dodge it. Humor 'em, play 
boss and frolic with 'em, wash 'em, undress 'em, tell 'em stories about 
Jack and the bean stalk, and what you done when you was a little 
boy; scratch their backs and put 'em to bed, and if they can't sleep, 
get up with 'em away in the night, and nod around in your night- 
gown until they can. Let them trot after you a heap in week days 
and all day of a Sunday, and don't try to shirk off the trouble and 
the responsiblity on the good woman who bore 'em. Solomon says: 
''Children are the chief end of man, and the glory of his declining 
years," and raisin' of 'em is the biggest business I know of in this life, 
and the most responsible in the life to come. 

When a man begins to get along in years he gradually changes 
from being a king in his family to a patriarch. He is more tender 
and kind to his offspring, and instead of ruling them, the first thing 
he knows they are ruling him. My youngest children and my grand- 
children just run over me now, and it takes more than half my 
time to keep up with 'em, and find out where they are and what they 
are doing. It rains most every day, and the weeds and grass are 
always wet, and the children and thje dogs track mud all over the house. 
We can't keep 'em in and we can't keep 'em out. The boys have got 
traps set in the swamp, and are obliged to go to 'em every fifteen min- 
utes, and if they catch a bird it's as big a thing as killin' an elefant. 
They built a brick furnace in the back yard, and have been cookin' on 
it for two days, bakin' hoe-cakes, and fryin' eggs, and boilin' coffee, 
and their afflicted mother has mighty near surrendered; for she can't 
keep a skillet, nor a spoon, nor a knife, nor a plate in the kitchen, 
and so she tried to kick the furnace over, and now goes about limpin' 
with a sore toe. Some of the older ones have found a chalk quarry 
in a ditch, and taken a notion to drawin' and sculpture, and made 
pictures of dogs and chickens and snakes all around the house on the 
outside; and while the good mother was cookin' the two youngest ones 
chalked over the inside as good as they could. The mantel-piece, and 
jams, and doors, and beadsteads, and sewin' machine, and window-glass 
were all ring-streaked and striked, and as I couldent do justice to the 
subject myself, I waited for reinfoi'cements. When the maternal 
ancestor appeared, I was a peepin' through the crack of the door. She 



The Farm and The Fireside. 153 

paused upon the threshold like an an actor playing high tragedy in a 
theater. '' Merciful fathers ! " then a long and solem pans. "Was 
there ever such a set upon the face of the earth? What shall I do? 
Ain't it enough to run anybody distracted? Here I have worked and 
worked to make this old house look decent, and now look at it! I've 
a good mind to wring your little necks for you. Did ever a mother 
have such a time as I have — can't leave me one minit that they ain't 
into mischief, and it's been the same thing over and over and over 
with all of 'em for the last twenty-nine years, I'd rather been an old 
maid a thousand times over. I wish there wasn't a child in the world 
— yes, I do!" (Looks at 'em mournfully for a minute.) "Come 
here, Jessie, you little pale-faced darling. Mamma ain't mad with 
you; no, you're just the sweetest thing in the world; and poor little 
Carl's broken finger makes my heart ache every time I look at it. He 
did have the sweetest little hand before that boy mashed it all to 
pieces with his maul ; and there's that great scar on his head, where 
the brick fell on him, and another over his eye, where he fell on the 
hatchet. I wonder if I ever will raise you poor little things ; you look 
like little orphans; take your chalk and mark some more, if you want 
to." When I came in she was a helpin' 'em make a bob-tail dog on 
the closet door. "I've found your old tom cat," said I; "Carl had 
him fastened up in that nail keg that's got a hen's nest in it." "Why, 
Carl, what upon earth did you put the cat in there for?" "Why, 
mamma, he's a settin, and I wanted him to lay some little kittens. 
Me and Jessie wants some kittens." 

These little chaps ride the horses and colts over the meadow and 
pasture, and make the sheep jump the big branch, and they go in a 
washing two or three times a day, and they climb the grape arbor and 
the apple trees and stuff* their craws full of fruit and trash, and they 
can tell whether a watermelon is ripe or green, for they plug it to see. 
and every one of 'em has got a sling shot and my pigeons are always 
on the wing, and the other day I found one of the finest young pullets 
laying dead with a hole in her side, and all the satisfaction I can get 
is I dident mean to do it, or I won't do it any more, or I dident do it 
at all. Jesso. It's most astonishing how the little rascals can shoot 
with their slings, and now I don't believe it was a miracle at all that 
made David plump old Goliah in the forehead, for these boys can 
plump a jaybird now at 40 yards, and we have had to take all their 



154 The Farm and The Firesidh. 

weapons away to protect the birds and poultry. Sometimes I get mad 
and rip up and round like I was going to do something desperate, but 
Mrs. Arp comes a-slipping along and begins to tell how they dident 
mean any harm, and they are just like all other boys, and wants to 
know if I dident do them sort of things when I was a boy. Well, 
that's a fact — I did — and I got a lickin' for it, too. You see, I was one 
of the oldest boys, and they always catch it, but the youngest one never 
gets a lickin', for by the time he comes along the old man has mellowed 
down and wants a pet. The older children have married and gone, 
and the old folks feel sorter like they have been throwed off for some- 
body no kin to 'em, and so they twine around those that are left all 
the closer, but by-and-by they grow up, too, and leave them, and it's 
pitiful to see the good old couple bereft of their children and living 
alone in their glory. Then is the time that grandchildren find a wel- 
come in the old family homestead, for as Solomon saith, the glory of 
an old man is his children's children. Then is the time that the little 
chaps of the second and third generation love to escape from their 
well ruled home, and for awhile find refuge and freedom and frolic at 
grandpa's. A child without a grandpa and a grandma can never have 
its share of happiness. I'm sorry for 'em. Blessings on the good old 
people, the venerable grand-parents of the land, the people with good 
old honest ways and simple habits and limited desires, who indulge in 
no folly, w^ho hanker after no big thing, but live along serene and 
covet nothing but the happiness of their children and their children's 
children. I said to a good old mother not long ago: "Well, I hear 
that Anna is to be married." "Yes, sir," said she, smiling sorrow- 
fully, "I don't know what I will do. The last daughter I've got is 
going to leave me. I've nursed her and petted her all her life, and I 
kinder thought she was mine and would always be mine, but she's run 
off* after a feller she's no kin to in the world, and w^ho never did do a 
thing for her but give her a ring and a book or two and a little French 
candy now and then, and it does look so strange and unreasonable. I 
couldent understand it at all if— if I hadent done the same thing 
myself a long time ago," and she kept knitting away with a smile and 
a tear upon her motherly face. ^^ 

But I am not going to slander these little chaps that keep us so busy 
looking after them, for there is no meanness in their mischief, and if 
they take liberties it is because we let 'em. Mrs. Arp says they are 



The Farm and The Fireside. 155 

just too sweet to live, and is always narrating some of their smart say- 
ings. Well, they are mighty smart, for they know exactly how to get 
everything and do everything they want, for they know how to manage 
her, and they know that she manages me, and that settles it. A man 
is the head of the house about some things, and about some other 
things he is only next to head, if he ain't foot. A man can pimish 
his children, but it's always advisable to make an explanation in due 
time and let his wife know what he did it for, because you see they 
are her children shore enough, and she knows and feels it. The pain, 
and trouble, the nursing and night watching have all been hers. The 
washing and dressing, and mending, and patching — tieing up fingers 
and toes, and sympathizing with 'em in all their great big little troubles 
all falls to her while the father is tending to his farm, or his store, or 
his office, or friends, or may be to his billiard table. When a woman 
says "this is my child," it carries more weight and more meaning than 
when a man says it, and I've not got much respect for a law that will 
give a man the preference of ownership just because he is a man. I 
remember when I was a boy, a sad, pretty woman taught school in 
our town, aud she had a sweet little girl about eight years old, and 
one day a man came there for the child and brought a lawyer with, 
him, and the mother was almost distracted, and all of us boys — big 
and little — got rocks and sticks and thrash poles and hid the little girl 
up in the cupalo, and when the sheriff came we attacked him like 
killing snakes or fighting yaller jackets, and we run him off, and 
when he came back with more help, we run 'em all off, and the 
man never got his child, and I can say now that the soldiers who 
whipped the yaukees at Bull Kun were not half so proud of their 
victory as w^e were, though I found out afterwards that the sheriff was 
willing to be whipped, for he was on the side of the mother and didn't 
want to find the child no how. But the world is getting kinder than 
it used to be — kinder to women and to the poor and the dependent, 
and kinder to brutes. Away up in New England they used to drown 
women for being witches, but they don't now. Well, they do bewitch, 
a man powerfully sometimes, that's a fact, but if any drowning is 
done he drowns himself because he can't get the woman he wants and 
live under her witching all the time. But a man is still the head of 
the house and always will be, I reckon, for it's according to Scripture. 
He has got a natural right to run the machine and keep" up the sup- 



156 The Farm and The Fieesidh. 

plies, and if he always has money when the good wife wants it and 
doesn't wait for her to ask for it but makes her take it as a favor to 
him, then he is a successful husband and peace reigns supreme. 
Jesso. When there is money in the till a man can sit m his piazza 
with his feet on the banisters and smoke the pipe of peace. A 
woman loves money for its uses. She never hoards it or hides it away 
like a man — and when I used to be a merchant I thought there was 
no goodlier combination in all nature than a new stock of dry goods 
and a pretty woman in the store with a well filled purse in her pocket. 
Jesso. 



The Farm and The FinEsmE. 157 



CHAPTER XXIX. 



Making Sausage. 

Hog killing is over at last. We had about made up our minds 
to kill one at a time as we needed them and not cure any for bacon, 
but the weather got right and the moon was on the increase, and so 
we slayed them. I don't care anything about the moon myself, but 
there are some old family superstitions that the meat will shrink in the 
pot if the moon is on the wane when you kill it. The new moon is 
quite level this time, which is a sure sign that it will rain a good deal 
this month, or that it won't. We have pretty welf disposed of this 
greasy business. The little boys had a good time frying liver on the 
hot rocks and roasting tails in the ashes and blowing up balloons, and 
now if we had a few darkies to cook up the heads and clean the feet 
and fix up the skins for sausages and make a nice lot of souse, we 
could live like princes, but it's troublesome work and costs more than 
it comes to if we have to do it ourselves. 

I am very fond of sausage — home made sausage such as Mrs. Arp 
knows how to make, and so she delicately informed me that the meat 
was all chopped and ready for the machine, and said something about 
my everyday clothes and one of her old aprons. She further 
remarked that when it was all ground up she would come down and 
show me how much salt and pepper and sage to put in and how to 
mix it all up together. Well, I didn't mind the machine business at 
all, but I remembered seeing her work mighty hard over that mixing 
of the salt and pepper and sage, and frying a little mess on the stove 
and tasting it, and then putttng in more salt and work it over again, 
and cooking another mess and tasting it again, and then putting in 
more pepper and more sage, and after the job was all over, heard her 
declare there wasn't enough of anything in it, and so I conjured up a 
bran new idea, and sprinkled^ about a hatful of salt and a quart of 
black pepper and a pint of cayenne and all the sage that was on the 
premises all over the meat before I ground it. Then I put it through. 



158 The Farm and The Fireside. 

the machine, and cooked and tasted it myself. Well, it was a little 
hot — that's a fact — and a little salty, and a right smart sagey, but it 
was good, and a little of it satisfied a body quicker than a good deal 
of the ordinary kind, and the new plan saved a power of mixing. I 
took a nice little cake of it up to Mrs. Arp to try, which she did with 
some surprise aud misgiving. By the time she had sneezed four times 
and coughed the plate out of her lap, she quietly asked me if it was 
all like that. "All," said I, solemnly. **Do you like it?" said she. 
"Pretty w^ell, I think," said I; "I wanted to save you trouble, and 
maybe I have got it a leetle too strong." She never replied, but the 
next day she made up the little cloth bags and stuffed 'em and hung 
all overhead in the kitchen, and remarked as she left, "Now, chil- 
dren, that's your pa's sausage. It's a pity he hadn't stayed away 
another day." 

Mrs. Arp has been mighty busy, as usual — always a working, for 
the house will get dirty, and the children's clothes will wear out, and 
it's clean up and sew, and patch, and darn, and sew" on buttons ; and 
it's the same old thing day after day and week after w^eek ; and the lit- 
tle chaps have to be watched all day and washed every night ; and 
their shoe-strings get in a hard knot, and it's a worry to get it undone. 
They wander over the hill and play in the branch, or frolic in the 
barn loft, or slip oft to Cobe's ; and I can hear a sweet motherly voice 
about forty times a day, as she steps to the door and calls: "Carl — 
you Carl ! Jessie, Jessie e-e ! Where upon earth have those chil- 
dren gone to? I will just have to tie the little wretches, or put a 
block and chain to them." One day she caught me laughing at her 
anxiety, and I knew she didn't like it, for she said: "Never mind, 
AVilliam, some of these days those children will come home drowned 
in the creek, or carried oft by the gypsies, and you won't laugh then." 
AVhen she succeeds in getting them home she places her arms akimbo, 
and with a look of unutterable despair gazes at them and exclaims : 
' ' Merciful fathers ! did ever a poor mother have such children ? — feet 
right wet, shoes all muddy ; and there — another hole in the knee of 
his pants — and Jessie has torn her apron nearly off of her. Bring me 
a switch. I will not stand it, for it's sew and patch and worry for- 
ever. I could hardly put those shoes on you this morning, for they 
have been wet and dried, and wet and dried until they are as hard as 
boards, and your pa won't get you any new ones ; and your stockings 



The Farm and The Fireside. 159 

are worn out and all wet besides ; and the diptheria is all over the 
country, and it's a wonder you don't take it and die. Come into the 
fire, you poor little orphans, and warm your feet. You may pop 
some corn, and here's some apples for you. Don't you want some din- 
ner, my darlings?" 

The poet hath said that ''a baby in the house is a well spring of 
pleasure." There is a bran new one here now, the first in eight years, 
and it has raised a powerful commotion. It's not our baby, exactly, but 
it's in the line of descent, and Mrs. Arp takes on over it all the same as 
she used to when she was regularly in the business. I thought maybe 
she had forgotten how to nurse 'em and talk to 'em, but she is singing 
the same old familiar songs that have sweetened the dreams of half a 
score, and she blesses the little eyes and the sweet little mouth and 
uses the same infantile language that nobody but babies understand. 
For she says, *'tum here to it's dandmudder," and "bess its 'ittle 
heart," and talks about its sweet little footsy-tootsies and holds it up 
to the window to see the wagons go by and the wheels going rouny- 
pouny, and now my liberty is curtailed, for as I go stamping around 
with ray heavy farm shoes she shakes her ominous finger at me just 
like she used to and says, *' Don't you see the baby is asleep?" And 
so I have to tip-toe around, and ever and anon she wants a little fire, 
or some hot water, or some catnip, for the baby is a-crying and shorely 
has got the colic. The doors have to be shut now for fear of a draft 
of air on the baby, and a little hole in the window pane about as big 
as a dime had to be patched, and I have to hunt up a passel of kin- 
lings every night and put 'em where they will be handy, and they 
have sent me off to another room where the baby can't hear me snore, 
and all things considered, the baby is running the machine, and the 
well spring of pleasure is the center of space. A grandmother is a 
wonderful help and a great comfort at such a time as this, for what 
does a young mother, with her first child, know about colic and 
thrash, and hives and hiccups, and it takes a good deal of faith to 
dose 'em with sut tea and catnip, and lime water, and paregoric, and 
soothing syrup, and som times with all these the child gets worse, and 
if it gets better I've always had a curiosity to know which remedy it 
was that did the work. Children born of healthy parents can stand 
a power of medicine and get over it, for after the cry comes the sleep, 
and sleep is a wonderful restorer. Eock 'em awhile in the cradle, 



k 



160 The Farm and The Fireside. 

then take 'em up and jolt 'em a little on- the knee and then turn 'em 
over and jolt 'em on the other side, and then give 'em some sugar in 
a rag and after awhile they will go to sleep and let the poor mother 
rest. There is no patent on this business, no way of raising 'em all 
the same way, but it is trouble, trouble from the start, and nobody 
but a mother knows how -much trouble it is. A man ought to be 
mighty good just for his mother's sake, if nothing else, for there is no 
toil or trial like nursing and caring for a little child, and there is no 
grief so great as a mother's if all her care and anxiety is wasted on an 
ungrateful child. 

It looks like we will be obleeged to import a doctor in the settle- 
ment. Fact is we are obleeged to have a doctor — not that one is 
needed at all, but just to quiet the female hystericks when any little 
thing happens. Since we've lived here I've had to send five miles on 
the run for a doctor two times just to keep down the family hystericks. 
Both times the patient recovered before the doctor arrived, but then 
it w^as such a comfort to have him around and hear him say it is all 
right, and see him measure out a little yaller powder. It was only 
day before yesterday that Kalph put our little Carl on the old mare 
and was leading her along at the rate of half a mile an hour, when 
the little chap took a notion to fall off and as soon as the wind of it 
got to headquarters, there was a wild female rush to the scene of 
great disaster. "Oh mercy, oh the dear child. He's killed. I 
know he's killed, poor little darliug. Oh my child, my child. Ealph, 
I'll whip you for this if I live. Oh my precious. Just look at 
that place on his little head. Children, where is your pa? Send for 
the doctor. Oh mercy — what did we ever move out here for, five 
miles from a doctor ?" I w^as mighty busy planting peas and so forth 
in my garden, but I snuffed the commotion in the air, and in a few 
moments found 'em all bringing the boy to the house, and Mrs. Arp 
and the girls talked so fast and took on so I couldent find out what 
had happened to him. Finally I got the bottom facts from Ralph, 
the reckless — the butt end of all complaints — the promise of a thous- 
and whippings with nary one performed. I looked in vain for 
wounds and bruises and dislocations. "The boy is not seriously hurt," 
said I — "he is badly scared and you are making him worse by all 
this commotion — what he wants is rest and sleep." 

"Oh, never," said my wife, "it won't do to let him sleep — when the 



The Farm and The FniEsroE. 161 

brain is hurt sleep is the very worst thing — it brings on coma and coma 
is next thing to death — we must not let him sleep." I was pretty well 
aroused by this time and said, ''he shall sleep," and turned everybody 
out but Mrs. Arp and she acquiesced in my determination and the 
boy slept. He slept all night and Mrs. Arp sat beside the bed and 
watched. He was all right in the morning and ready for another 
ride. 



162 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXX. 



Tpie Old Trunk. 

The old trunk was open. Away down in its mysterious recesses 
Mrs. Arp was searching for something, and as I sat in the other corner 
with my little table and pen I watched her as she laid the ancient 
relics on a chair and unfolded first one and then another and looked 
at them so earnestly, and then folded them up again. *' What are 
you hunting for, my dear?" said I. "Oh, nothing much," said she; 
"I was just looking over these little dresses to see if there was any- 
thing that would do for the little grandchildren. Here is a pretty 
dress. This dress cost me many a careful stitch. All these plaits 
were made by my hand, my own hand. There is very little such work 
done now, for we had no sewing machines then, and it took a long, 
long time. This embroidery was beautiful then, and it is pretty yet. 
Do you remember when the first daguerrean came to our town to take 
pictures? Well, Hattie wore this dress when her picture was taken, 
and I thought she was the sweetest little thing in the world, and so 
did you, and she was. Since then we have had ambrotypes and pho- 
tographs and porcelain pictures, and I don't know what all; but that 
little daguerreotype gave me more pleasure than anything since, and 
it is pretty now. Let me see — that was twenty-five years ago, and 
now I think this same dress will look right pretty on Hattie's child. 
And here is one that our first boy was christened in, and there is no 
machine work about it either. That was more than thirty years ago, 
and now there are four grandchildren at his house, and three more at 
another one's house, and I don't know what will become of the poor 
little things, but I reckon the Lord will provide for them. And here 
is a little garment that Jennie made. Poor Jennie, she had a troubled 
life, but she is in heaven now, and Pll save this for Pet. She will 
prize it because her mother made it. And here is a piece of my 
wedding dress — do you remember it? I know you said then that I 
looked like an angel in it, but my wings have dropped off long ago, 



The Farm and The Fireside. 163 

and now I'm only a poor old woman, a faded flower, an overworked 
mother, ten living children and three more up yonder, and I will be 
there, too, I hope, before long, for I'm getting tired, very tired, and it 
seems to me I would like to be nursed, nursed by my mother, and 
petted like she used to pet me in the long, long ago. And here is a 
pair of little baby shoes, and the little darling who wore them is in 
the grave, but he is better off now, and I wouldent call him back if I 
could. Sometimes I want to feel sad, and I rummage over these old 
things. There is not much here now, for every little while I have to 
get out something to mend with or patch or make over again. I wish 
you would go and see what Carl and Jessie are doing; down at the 
branch I reckon, and feet all wet, and they have both got dreadful 
colds. I can't keep them away from that branch." 

*'Dident you play in the branch, my dear, when you were a child?" 
said I. *' Yes," said she mournfully, ''but nothing couldent hurt me 
then ; we were not raised so delicate in those days. You know I used 
to ride to the plantation, twelve miles, and back again in a day and 
bring a bag of fruit on the horn of the saddle, but the girls couldent 
do it now. They can go to a party in a buggy and dance half the 
night, but that is all excitement, and they are not fit for anything the 
next day. We dident have any dances — hardly ever — we went to the 
country wedding sometimes. You remember we went to James Dun- 
lap's wedding, when he married Rebecca Sammons. That was a big 
frolic — an old-fashioned frolic. Everybody was there from all the 
naborhood, and there were more turkeys and roast pig and cake than 
I ever saw, and we played everything we could think of. Rebecca 
was pretty then, but poor woman — she has had a thousand children, 
too, just like myself, and I reckon she is faded too, and tired." "But 
Jim Dunlap hasn't faded," said I. "I see him when I go to Atlanta, 
and he is big and fat and merry — looks a little like old David Davis." 

*'0h, yes, of course he does," said Mrs. Arp. *'The men don't 
know anything about care an anxiety and sleepless nights. It is a 
wonder to me they die at all." *'But I have helped you all I could, 
my dear," said I, "and you see it's telling on me. Look at these silver 
hairs and these wrinkles and crows-feet, and my back hurts ever and 
anon, and this rainy, bad weather gives me rheumatism, but you haven't 
a gray hair and hardly a seam on your alabaster forehead. Why, you 
will outlive me, too, and maybe there will be a rich widower stepping 



164 The Farm and The Fireside. 

around here in my shoes and you will have a fine carriage and a pair 
of beautiful bay horses, and — " 

"William, I told you to go after Carl and Jessie." 

'*If Vanderbilt's wife should die and he could accidentally see you," 
said I, "after I'm gone, there's no telling — " 

"Well, go along now and find the children, and when you come 
back I'll listen to your foolishness; J'm not going to let you die if I 
can help it, for I don't know what would become of us all. Yes, you 
have helped me, I know, and been a great comfort and did the best 
you could — most of the time; yes, most of the time — and I might have 
done worse, and you must nurse me now and pet me, for I am getting 
childish." "And you must pet me, too," said I. "Oh, of course I 
will," said she; "am I not always petting you? Now, go along after 
the children before we both get to crying and have a scene ; and I wish 
you would see if the buff cochin hens have hatched, in the hen house." 
"She has been setting about fourteen weeks,'' said I, "but she is get- 
ting old, and these old mothers are slow, mighty slow." 

I went after the children, and sure enough they were fishing in the 
spring branch, and their shoes were wet and muddy, and they were 
bare-headed, and I marched them up tenderly, and Mrs. Arp set them 
down by the fire and dried their shoes, and got them some more stock- 
ings, and then opened their little morning school. How patiently 
these old-fashioned mothers work and worry over the little things of 
domestic life. Day after day, and night after night, they labor and 
watch and watch and wait, while the fathers are contriving some big 
thing to keep up the family supplies. Parents are very much like 
chickens. The old hen will set and set and starve, and when the 
brood comes will go scratching for worms and bugs as hard as she can 
and be always clucking and looking out for hawks, but the old rooster 
will strut around and notice the little chickens with a paternal pride, 
and when he scratches up a bug makes a big fuss over it and calls 
them with a flourish, and eats it himself just before they get there. 

That was a mighty good talk in your last Sunday's paper about 
sleep, and letting folks sleep until nature waked 'em. He was a smart 
doctor who said all that, and he said it well, but I couldent help think- 
ing what would become of the babies if the mothers dident wake until 
they had got sleep enough. There are no regular hours for them. 
Job speaketh of the dark watches of the night when deep sleep falleth 



The Farm and The Fireside. 165 

upon a man, but it don't fall upon 'a weary mother with a fretful 
child when it is cutting its front teeth and wants to nurse the livelong 
night. When she is sleeping she is awake, and when she is waking 
she is half asleep, and the morning brings no rest or refreshment, and 
I was thinking, too, of what would become of the farm if the boys 
were not waked up early in the morning. Not many boys will awake 
up themselves, and they must be called, and in course of time have 
habits of waking forced upon 'em. A family that sleep late will 
always be behind with farm work. I do not believe in getting up 
before day and eating breakfast by candle light, but I do believe in 
early rising. I don't know how long my children would sleep if I 
did not call 'em, for I never tried it; but I don't call Mrs. Arp, of 
course I don't, though she says I had just as well, for I stamp around 
and slam the doors and whistle and sing until there is no more sleep 
for her. She wants me to build her a little house away off in the 
garden, where she can sleep enough to make up for lost time, and be 
always calm and serene, and I think I will. 



166 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 



The Georgia Colonel. 

Speaking of Georgia colonels, I was thinking the other day how- 
there came to be so many of 'em. We used to have general musters 
all over the State twice a year. The militia were ordered out to be 
reviewed by the commander-in-chief, which was the governor. The 
constitution required him to review 'em, and as he couldn't travel all 
around in person, he had to do it by proxy, and so he had his proxy 
in every county, and he was called the governor's aid-de-camp with 
the rank of colonel. This gave the governor over a hundred aid-de- 
camps, and they all took it as a compliment and wore cockade hats 
with red plumes, and epaulets, and long brass swords, and big brass 
spurs, and pistols in their holsters, and rode up and down the lines at 
a gallop, reviewing the meelish. The meelish were in a double 
crooked straight line in a great big field, and were armed with shot- 
guns and rifles, and muskets, and sticks, and corn-stalks^ and thrash- 
poles, and umbrellas, and they were standing up and setting down, or 
on the squat, or playing mumble peg, and they hollered for water 
half their time, and whiskey the other ; and when the colonel and his 
personal staff" got through reviewing he halted about the middle of the 
line and said, "Shoulder arms — right face — march," and then the 
kettle drums rattled and the fife squeaked, and some guns went off 
half cocked, and the meelish shouted awhile and were disbanded by 
the captains of their several companies. These colonels held their 
rank and title as long as the governor held his office, and they were 
expected to holler hurrah for the governor on all proper occasions, and 
they did it. If the governor ran again and was defeated, the next 
governor appointed a new set from among the faithful, and the old set 
had to retire from the field, but they held on to the title. For a great 
many years the old whigs and democrats had it up and down, in and 
out, and so new colonels were made by the score until the State was 



The Farm and The FiREsroE. 167 

chock full again. They had a general muster and a grand review 
once up at Lafayette, and Bob Barry lived up there and was the b-hoy 
of the town. Bob never wore shoes or a hat or hardly anything else 
in those days, and he had petted and tamed a great big long razor- 
backed hog, and could ride him with a rope bridle, and so as the col- 
onel and his staff came galloping down the lines with their cockades 
and plumes and glittering swords, Bob suddenly came out from behind 
a house mounted on his razor-back hog, and a paper cap with a tur- 
key feather in it on his head, and a pair of old tongs swinging from 
his suspenders, and some spurs on his bare -footed heels, and he fell in 
just behind the cavalcade, and got the hog on a run, and scared their 
horses, and the whole concern ran away and the hog after 'em, and 
such a yell and such an uproar was never heard in those parts or any- 
where else. The hog never stopped running until he got home, when 
he dismounted and took to the woods for fear of consequences. Bob 
is running a Sunday-school now, and I'm glad of it, for it will take a 
good deal of missionary work in him to make up for some things the 
Lafayette people tell about. 

But these militia musters got to be sucli farces that the legislature 
abolished 'em about thirty-five years ago, though they couldent abolish 
the colonels. When the war broke loose most of 'em went into the 
army and got reduced. Many a peace colonel got to be a war major 
or a captain, or even a high private, and in that way their ranks were 
thinned. Our governors, however, still make a few new ones as often 
as they are elected, and so the peace colonel is still destined to live 
and illustrate the good old State. The Georgia majors are not so 
numerous. They came from these same militia musters, for every 
county had her battalions and every battalion had its major. But 
now his destiny is fixed. There are no more majors to come, and the 
old stock is passing away. I'm glad you have a paper in your town 
that is perpetuating the good old name, for the time was in the good 
old days when he was a power in the land — when he, too, wore epau- 
lets and a sword and marched his cohorts up the hill and marched 'em 
down again. 

After the muster was over then came the horse swapping, and the 
horse races, and the pugilistic exercises in the town in front of the 
groceries. No pistols, nor knives, nor sticks were allowed, but tha 



168 The Farm and The Fireside. 

boys stripped to the waist and went at it with nature's weapons. It 
was short work and quick work and nobody hurt very much, though 
sometimes Billy Patterson got an awful lick. These fighting boys had 
no cause to quarrel, but Rancy Sniffle wanted it settled as to who was 
the best man in his beat. That was all. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 169 



CHAPTER XXXIL 



On the Old Times, Alexander Stephens, Etc. 

Two cents — only two cents. When I look at a postage stamp it 
carries me away back. Back to the time when my father was post- 
master and I was clerk, and had to make up the mails in a country 
town. The difference between now and then shows that the world's 
progress in this department is hardly excelled in any other branch of 
improvement. We couldn't bear to be set back again in the old ways 
that our fathers thought were pretty good. There were no stamps 
and no envelopes and no mucilage. The paper was folded up like a 
thumbpaper, and one side slipped in the other and sealed with a wrap- 
per. The little schoolboys, you know, had to use thumb-papers in 
their spelling books to keep them clean where their dirty thumbs kept 
the pages open. Girls didn't have to use them, for they were nicer 
and kept their hands clean, and didn't wear out the leaves by the 
friction of their fingers. Boys are rough things any how, and I don't 
see what a nice, sweet, pretty girl wants with one of 'em. Girls, they 
say, are made of sugar and spice and all that's nice, but boys are 
made of snaps and snails and puppy dogs' tails. Josephus says, that 
when the queen of Sheba was testing Solomon's wisdom, she had fifty 
boys and fifty girls all dressed alike in girls' clothes and seated around 
a big room, and asked the king to pick out the boys from the girls, 
and he called for a basin of water and had it carried around to each 
one and told them to wash their hands. The girls all rolled up their 
sleeves a little bit, the boys just sloshed their hands in any way and 
got water all over their aprons, and so the king spotted every mother's 
son of them. 

The postage used to be regulated by the distance that Uncle Sam 
carried the letters. It was 12^ cents anywhere in the state, and 18 J 
cents to Charleston, and 25 cents to New York. It was never pre- 
paid. A man could afllict another with a pistareen letter that wasent 
worth five cents. A pistareen, you know, was 18|- cents — that is a 



170 The Farm and The Fireside. 

sevenpence and a thrip. We had no dimes or half dimes. The dol- 
lars was cut up into eighths instead of tenths. When a countryman 
called for letters and got one, he would look at it some time and turn 
it over and meditate before he paid for it, and very often they would 
say, "where did this letter come from?" Well, I would say, for 
instance, *'it came from Dahlonega — don't you see Dahlonega written 
up on the corner ? " Then he would say, "well, I reckon it's from 
Dick, my brother Dick. He is up there diggin' gold. Don't you 
reckon it's from Dick?" "I reckon it is," said I. "Why don't you 
open it and see ? " "No, I'll wait until I get home. They'll all want 
to see it," When he got home that letter would be an event in the 
family, and perhaps it would take them half an hour to wade through 
it and make out its contents. Nine out of ten of those country let- 
ters began, ' ' I take my pen in hand to let you know that I am well, 
and hope these few lines will find you enjoying the same blessing." 
My father kept store and his country customers used to ask him to 
write their letters for them, and he always sent them to me, and most 
of them told me to begin their letters that way. There was not more 
than one in five that could write, but they were good, clever, honest 
peoj)le and paid their debts, but they hardly ever paid up in full at 
the end of the year, and so they gave their notes for the balance and 
made their mark. My father used to say that he had known cases 
where a man swore oif his written signature, but he never knew a man 
to deny his mark. Our big northern mail used to come in a stage 
from Madison twice a week, and I used to think the sound of the 
stage-horn as the stage came over the hill, was one of the sublimest 
things in the world, and I thought that if ever I got to be a man I 
would be a stage-driver if I could. Well, I came pretty near it, for 
my father had hired a man to ride the mail to Roswell and back twice a 
week, and the man got sick and so my father put me on a dromedary 
of a horse and the mail in some saddle-bags behind me, and I had to 
make the forty-eight miles in a day and kept it up all the winter. I 
liked to have frozen several times, and had to be lifted off the horse when 
I got home, and it nearly broke my mother's heart, but I was getting a 
dollar a trip and it was my money, and so I wouldn't back out. The 
old w^omen on the route used to crowd me with their little commissions 
and get me to bring them pepper, or copperas, or bluing, or pins and 
needles, or get me to take along some socks and sell them, and so I 



The Farm and The FiREsroE. 171 

made friends and acquaintances all the way. The first trip I made, 
an old woman hailed me and said, *' Are you a mail boy ? " "Why, 
yes, mam," said I. "You dident think I was a female boy, did 
you ? " I thought that was smart, but it wasent very civil and it 
made her so mad she never told me what she wanted, and as she 
turned her back on me I heard her say, "I'll bet he's a little stuck up 
town boy." 

My father was postmaster for nearly thirty years. It didn't pay 
more than about $200 a year, but it made his store more of a public 
place. He didn't know that anybody else hankered after it or was 
trying to get it, but all of a sudden he got his orders to turn over the 
oflSce to another man, an old line Whig and a competitor in business. 
It mortified him very much and made us all mad, for there was no 
fault found with his management, and he never took much interest in 
politics but voted for the man he liked the best whether he w^as a 
W hig or a Democrat. When he found that Alex. Stephens had it done 
he wasent a Stephens man any more, and I grew up with an idea 
that Mr. Stephens was a political fraud. I dident understand the 
science of politics as well as I do now. I told Mr. Stephens about it 
one night at Milledgeville when we were all in a good humor and 
were talking about the old times of Whigs and Democrats, and he 
smiled and said, ' ' yes, we had to do those things, and sometimes they 
were very disagreeable." I will never forget that night's talk. It 
was during the session of the first legislature after the war. Jim 
Waddell took me to Mr. Stephens' room to hear him talk, and there 
was Mr. Jenkins and Tom Hardeman and Benning Moore and Beverly 
Thornton and Peter Strozier and Dr. Ridley and some others, and 
everybody was in a good humor, and Mr. Stephens was reclining on 
his bed and told anecdote after anecdote about the old AYhigs and 
how he met the Democrats on the stump and what they said and what 
he said, and he most always got the advantage and carried the crowd 
with him. I was very much fascinated with his conversation, but 
couldent help being reminded of a circumstance that transpired some 
years before in the town of Calhoun. The Whigs of Gordon county 
had sent for Mr. Stephens to come up and make a speech and rally 
the boys for the next election, for Gordon was pretty equally balanced 
between Whigs and Democrats, and the Whigs wanted a big revival. 
So Aleck accepted^ and when the day came the crowd was tremendous. 



172 The Farm and The Fireside. 

The Democrats had tried to get Howell Cobb and Herschel Johnson 
to come up and reply to Aleck, but they couldent come, and so little 
Aleck had it all his own way. In the meantime the Democratic boys 
had hunted up A. M. Russell and got his promise to reply to Mr. 
Stephens. Russell was an original genius. He was gifted in language, 
gifted in imagination, gifted in cheek, gifted in lying, and was utterly 
regardless of consequences. 

Mr. Stephens made a splendid speech. He arraigned the Democ- 
racy and held them up to ridicule, and when he got through the 
Whigs were more than satisfied, and Mr. Stephens was satisfied, too — 
he came down from the stand and was receiving the congratulations of 
his friends, when suddenly Russell mounted the rostrum and, rapping 
on the plank in front of him, screamed out in one unearthly yell; 
''Fellow citizens!" Everybody knew him, and everybody wanted to 
hear him, and hushed into silence. After a sentence or two Mr. 
Stephens was attracted to him, and with curious and astonished inter- 
est inquired, *'Who is that man?" After Russell had paid an elo- 
quent tribute to the glorious old Democratic party, and given it 
credit for every good thing that had been done since the fall of Adam, 
he then turned to Mr. Stephens, and, with a sneering scorn, said: 
"And what have you and your party been doing and trying to do ? 
What made you vote away the public lands so that yankees and fur- 
riners could get 'em and our people couldent? What made you vote 
for high tariff on sugar and cofiee and raise the price so that our poor 
people couldent buy it?" Mr. Stephens rose excited and irritated, 
and stretching his long arm to the audience, screamed out: **I never 
did it, my fellow-citizens — I deny the fact and call upon the gen- 
tlemen for his proof." With the utmost self-possession, Russell said, 
*'You do — you call for the proof. Sir, if I was to go two miles from 
home to make a speech I would carry my proof with me. I wouldent 
be vain enough to go without it ; but, sir, I am at home — these peo- 
ple know me — they raised me and when I assert a thing they believe 
it. You are the man to bring the proof." The crowd shouted an(J 
laughed as tumultuously as they had done for Mr. Stephens, and he 
sat down disgusted. Russell continued: *'And what was your motive 
when you were a member of the legislature in voting for a law that 
prohibited a man from voting unless he was worth $500? Answer 
me that while you are here face to face with these humble citizens of 



The Farm and The Fireside. 173 

Gordon county. At this Mr. Stephens rose again furious with indig- 
nation and screamed : "It is ialse, sir, it is false; I deny the fact." 

*'You do," said Kussell, scornfully, "I supposed you would — you 
deny the fact. That is just what you have been doing for twenty 
years — going about over the country denying facts." And the 
crowd went wild with merriment, for even the AVhigs couldn't help 
joining in the fun. Mr. Stephens turned to his companions and said 
with a tone of despair, "Let us go to the hotel," and they went, 

I thought of all this while Mr. Stephens was telling me of his 
triumphs over veteran foes, and so when he came to a pause I timidly 
said: "Mr. Stephens, did you ever encounter a man by the name of 
Kussell up at Calhoun?" 

With a merry glistening of his wonderful eyes he straightened up and 
said : ' 'I did, I did, yes, I did. I will never forget that man. He got me 
completely. If I had known him I would not have said a word in 
reply, but I dident know him. He cured me of one expression. I 
frequently used to emphasize my denial of lies and slander, and that 
was to say, 'I deny the fact.' I had never thought of its grammatical 
absurdity, but that man Russell taught me and I quit it. I think he 
had the most wonderful flow of language and lies of any man I ever 
met." Mr. Stephens then made a pretty fair recital of his recounter 
and his "utter defeat," as he expressed it, all of which we eujoyed. 
Where are they now? Old Father Time has cut them all down but 
three, Hardeman and Thornton and myself are here, but all the rest 
of that bright, intelligent crowd are gone. It looks like most every- 
body is dead. If they are not they will be before long, and another 
set will be in their places and have their jokes and flash their wit and 
merriment all the same. 



174 The Fakm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 



Sticking to the Old. 

As the world grows older mankind becomes more liberal in opinion 
and less wedded to prejudice and superstition. We rub against one 
another so closely nowadays, and talk so much and read so much that 
our conceit is weakening, and we think more and think deeper than 
we used to, and are more ready to absorb knowledge. A man don't 
dare nowadays to say anything is impossible, for many impossibilities 
have already been performed, and we now live in a state of anxious 
expectation as to what big thing will come next. Still, there are some 
folks who stubbornly refuse to fall into line, and they stand by the 
old landmarks. Not long ago I passeed by a blacksmith shop away 
off in the country, and there was a horse doctor cutting the hooks out 
of a horse's eyes to keep him from going blind, and he got very indig- 
nant when I told him that the horse books were all against it, and said 
it ought to be prohibited by law. I heard an old hardshell arguing 
against this idea that the world turned over every day, and he declared 
it was against common sense and Scripture, and he wouldent let his chil- 
dren go to school to learn any such nonsense, for he knowed that the 
water would all spill out if you turned it upside down, and the Scrip- 
ters said that Joshua commanded the sun to stand still, and it stood 
still ; and he asked me how I was going to get over the like of that. 
I saw that the crowd was agamst me, and so I replied: "Jesso. 
Jesso, my friend. And right then the wonderful change took place. 
The sun used to go around the earth, of course, but Joshua stopped it 
and he never set it to going again, and it is there yet." 

This weakened the old man a little and unsettled the crowd, and I 
got away from there prematurely for fear the old man would send for 
his Bible. Answer a fool according to his folly is a good way some- 
times. Dr. Harden told me about his father raising a rumpus a long 
time ago in old AVatkinsville by asserting that all horses had botts in 
'em, and it was accordin' to nature and the botts were not a disease. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 175 

and a horse never died on account of 'em. Old man Moore kept the 
tavern there and he swore that Harden was a luniack, and so one day 
when they were playing checkers in the tavern a storm came up and a 
terrible crash was heard, and pretty soon a darkey came running in 
the house and told his master the lightning had struck his iron grey 
horse and killed him. Old man Moore thought as much of that horse 
as he did of his wife, and the crowd all hurried out to the lot to see 
him. Moore was greatly distressed and used bad language about the 
catastrophe, and after he subsided a little, Harden says he, "Now 
Moore, if you say so, I'll cut open that horse and show you the botts, 
and I reckon that will settle it." So Moore agreed to it, and when he 
was opened, and the botts began to cut their way out and worm 
around, Harden looked at Moore with triumphant satisfaction and 
paused for a reply. Moore had his hands crossed behind his back, 
and was gazing intently at the ugly varmints, when suddenly he 
exclaimed, ''Harden, I was powerful mad with that lightning for kill- 
ing old Selim, but I ain't now, for if the lightning hadent struck him 
I'll be damned if them infernal botts wouldent have killed him in 
thirty minutes." Moore had a big fighting stump-tail dog by the name 
of Ratler, and one day a little Italian came along with an organ and 
a monkey, and as the crowd gatherd around he asked the man if his 
monkey could fight. "Oh, yes, he fight," said the Italian. "Will 
he fight a dog?" said Moore. "Oh, yes; he fight a dog — he whip 
dog quick," said the Italian. Moore pulled out a five dollar bill and 
said, "I'll bet you this that I've got a dog he can't whip." The little 
fellow covered it with another five and the money was handed over to 
a stakeholder and they went through to the back yard, followed by 
half the folks in the little town. There lay the dog on the grass 
asleep, and at the word the Italian tossed the monkey on him. In 
less than a jiff^y the little brute had his teeth and his claws fastened 
like a vise in the stump of that dog's tail and was screeching like a 
hyena. The dog gave but one astonished look behind as he bounced 
to his feet and made tracks for another country. The monkey held 
on until Katler sprung over a ten-rail fence at the back of the garden 
when he suddenly quit his hold and sat on the top rail, and watched 
the dog's flight with a chatter of perfect satisfaction and danced along 
the rail with delight. The crowd was convulsed. They laughed and 
roared and hollered tumultuously, all but old man Moore whose, voice 



176 The Farm and The Fireside. 

could be heard above all others as he stood upon the fence and shouted 
"Here Katler, here, here; here Ratler, here; here Ratler, here." 
But Ratler wouldent hear. Ratler rattled on and on, across field after 
field, until he got to the woods and was gone from-human sight. The 
Italian shouldered his monkey affectionately, and walking up to Moore, 
said: "Your dog not well to-day, maybe your dog gone off to hunt 
rabbeet. Your dog no like my monkey — he not acquint. Maybe 
ven I come again next year he come and fight some more. Ven you 
look for heem to come back?" Moore gave up the wager, but he 
asserted solemnly that Ratler would have whipped the fight if he 
hadent have run. "The surprise, gentlemen, the surprise was what 
done it," said he, "for that dog has whipped wild cats and a bear and 
a she wolf and every dog in ten miles of Watkinsville." And all 
that evening and away in the night and early the next morning an 
inviting mournful voice could be heard at the back of the garden 
calling, "Ratler here;" Ratler, here; and three days after a man 
brought Ratler home, but he had lost his integrity and never could be 
induced to fight anything more. 

Some men never give up a thing, and some give up too much. 
Judge Bleckley says that he is in the cautious, credulous state about 
everything, and just lives along serenely and waits for events. He 
says that if a man can hear the voice of a friend from New York to 
Boston by the aid of a telephone, why shouldn't all the other senses 
be aided in like manner by some invention; and he hints that he 
wouldent be surprised at an invention that would enable a man to kiss 
his wife across the Atlantic ocean. I don't think that follows to reason, 
for hearing and seeing are both for distance, and so is smelling, but 
feeling is a very different thing. Feeling means contact, and the 
closer the contact the more intense the feeling. It never was intended 
to feel afar off, and so I don't believe that any good would come of a 
man kissing his wife through a machine a thousand miles long. It 
would be very dangerous, for it might encourage folks to be kissing 
other people's wives, and the machine would be kept busy all the time, 
for there are some men who couldent be choked off, and by and by 
the whole world would be kissing one another, and business would 
be neglected and mankind would come to want. 

But I do believe that everything will come that ought to come. 
Nature has a mighty big storehouse, and she always unlocks it at the 



The Farm and The Fireside. 177 

riglit time. She is very economical of her treasures, and keeps 'em 
from us until she sees that we are obliged to have 'em. Cotton dident 
come, nor cotton machinery, until the world was bad off for clothing. 
The sewing machine come along just as the poor women were about 
worn out, and Tom Hood had written his sad, sweet "Song of the 
Shirt." Coal was found when wood got scarce in the old world. Rail- 
roads and steamships were invented as population increased, and now 
we couldent possibly do without 'em. Old Peter Cooper said that a 
million of people would perish in New York city in one month if the 
cars were to stop running that long. Then came the telegraph, and 
now the telephone, and I don't think any other very big thing will 
happen soon, for mankind is very comfortable, and don't need it, so 
let us all rest awhile and let Dame Nature rest. She has been very 
kind to her creatures, and we all ought to be thankful. 



178 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 



A Prose Poem on Spring. 

On this pellucid day when the sky is so beautifully blue and the 
sun so warm and cheerful, when the jaybirds are chanting their safe 
return from purgatory and the crows are cawing over the sprouting 
corn, when the sheep bells tinkle merrily in the meadow and children 
and chickens are cackling around, it seems like everything in nature 
was happy and everybody ought to be. The darkies are singing to 
the mules in the cotton field and are happier with a little than the 
white folks are with a good deal. The darkey never borrows trouble. 
I wish our race would take a few lessons in contentment from 'em — 
not enough to make us shiftless and with no ambition to better our 
condition, but enough to stop this restlessness, this wild rush for 
money, this wear and tear upon brain and heart that is getting to be 
the curse of the land. I wish everybody was happy and had nothing 
against nobody. I wish every farmer had fine horses and fat cattle 
and plenty of pocket change, and dident have to work only when he 
felt like it. I wish I had a winter home in Florida with orange groves 
and pine apples and bananas, and a summer home up among the 
mountains, and a railroad and palace cars between the two, and a free 
pass over the line and plenty of monoy at both ends of it. I wish I 
was a king with a mint of gold and silver at my command, so I could 
go about in disguise and mingle with the poor and friendless and lift 
them up out of distress and make 'em happy. I wish I was a genii 
like we read of in the Arabian Nights, and could, at a breath, build 
palaces and make diamonds and pearls and marry all the poor girls to 
rich husbands, and all the struggling boys to princesses and kick up a 
cloud of golden dust wherever I went. No I don't, either, for I know 
now that the like of that wouldent bring happiness in this sublunary 
world. The best condition for a man is to have neither poverty nor 
riches. Old Agur prayed a good prayer and he knew how it was — 



->• 



The Farm and The Fireside. 179 

For riches bripg us trouble when they come, 
And there's want in the homes of the poor, 

But it's good for a man to have a little sum 
To keep away the wolf from the door. 

Some folks are never happy unless they are miserable. Their livers 
are green and yellow like melancholy, and they want everything they 
can get, and would rather see mankind going to hell than to heaven 
if they could stay behind and play wreckers on eternity's shore. I 
have seen men whose very presence would dry up all hilarity as quick 
as a slack tub cools hot iron. Men who never smile willingly, and 
when they force one the cadaverous visage is lit up for a moment with 
a brimstone light, and then relapses into its natural scowl. Such peo- 
ple are a nuisance upon society, and ought to be abolished or put into 
a lower asylum like luniacks. I've no more toleration for 'em than 
for a mad dog, and if there's any apology it's in favor of the dog. 

How inspiring is the earliest breath of spring, when nature like a 
blushing maid is putting on her pantalets and preparing to bang her 
silken hair. How quickly it brings to life the slumbering emotions 
"which, though chilled by the frosts and the winds of winter, were not 
dead, but only lay dormant like a bear in his den. What harmoni- 
ous feelings spring up in one's bosom and gush forth to all mankind. 
This balmy weather fills all the chambers of the soul with music that 
is not heard and with poetry that is not expressed. The very air is 
redolent with love and peace. Turnip greens are running up to seed, 
the plum trees are in bloom, the busy bee is sucking their fragrant 
blossoms, and by and by will be stinging the children as usual. The 
sweet south wind is breathing upon the violet banks. Alder tags 
hang in graceful clusters upon their drooping stems. Jonquills are 
in a yellow strut, and the odorous shallots are about right for the fry- 
ing pan. The little silver-sides and minnows have opened their 
spring regattas. The classical robin has ceased to get drunk on the 
China berry, and the ferocious chicken hawk catches about one a day 
from our earliest broods. Everything is lively now — 

Over the meadows the new-born lambs are skipping, 
Over the fields the little boys are ripping. 

The country is the best place for children. What a glorious luxury 
it is for them to go barefooted and wade in the branch and go seining, 
and climb trees and hunt bu:ds' nests, and carry the corn to mill, and 



180 The Farm and The Fireside. 

run pony races. It is well enough for a man to live in a town or a 
city when he is young and active, but when he gets married and the 
little chaps come along according to nature, he ought to get on a farm 
to raise 'em. An old man with numerous grandchildren has got no 
business in a city. What a burlesque on childhood's joy it must be 
to visit grandpa and grandma in a city penned up in brick walls, wtih 
a few sickly flowers in the window, and a garden in the rear about as 
big as a wagon sheet. Might as well try to raise good, healthy, vig- 
orous colts in a stable yard. There is too much machinery about rais- 
ing children now-a-days anyhow. The race is running out, and noth- 
ing but country life can save it. The old back-log is gone, and the 
big, open, friendly fire-place, and the cheerful blazing family hearth; 
and now it is a hole in the floor, or iron pipes running around the 
walls. I reckon that is economy, but in my opinion a man can't im- 
prove the stock that way, nor keep it as good as it was. The children 
will be picayunish and over-nice and sharp-featured, and potty before 
and gimletty behind. They won't do to bet on like those chaps 
brought up around a fire-place on a hundred-acre farm. 

Raising children is the principal business of human life, and is about 
all that the majority of mankind are working for, though they don't 
know it. It is the excuse for all the mad rush of business that hurries 
su along. It is the apology for nearly all the cheating and stealing and 
lying in the land. Working for the children is behind it all, and the 
trouble is that most everybody is trying to do too much for 'em and 
scuffling against wind and tide to keep up with their nabors or get a lit- 
tle ahead. Too many fine clothes, too many kid gloves and parasols and 
new bonnets — too many carpets and curtains and pictures, and a thou- 
sand other things that run up the outgo bigger than the income, and 
keep the poor fellows always on a strain. I love to humor 'em and 
play horse with 'em, and tell 'em stories about Jack and the bean 
stalk, and what I did when I was a little boy ; and I put 'em to bed 
and rub their backs and let 'em trot around with me a good deal on 
week days and all day Sunday, but I'm not going to waste my slender 
substance on 'em, for it's nature's law that they must work for a liv- 
ing and they shall. I'm going to raise 'em in the country, for as 
Thomas Jefl^erson said, *'the influence of great cities is pestilential to 
health and morals and the liberties of the people." 



The Farm and The Fireside. 181 



CHAPTER XXXV. 



Uncle Bart. 

Old Uncle Bart, as we call him, wasn't a common drunkard nor an 
uncommon one either, but every time he came to town he would get 
drunk. He came mighty seldom, for when he did the memory of it 
lasted him about three months. He told me after such a spree he felt 
as mean and lonely as a stray dog. He said he couldn't eat nor sleep, 
and away in the night wanted water so bad he "felt like he could bite 
a branch in two and swallow the upper end." 

One morning he came in early to see Dolph Ross, who was going to 
Texas. He came across him before he came across the grocery, and 
says he: ''Hallo, Dolph — gwine to Texas?" 

"Yes, Uncle Bart, I am." 

"Well, my brother Ben lives over there, and he's got big rich, and 
no family, and I thought if you'd see him and tell him how sorry we 
was gettin' along he mout do something for us. You see my wheat 
crop is likely to fail, for the back-water from the spring freshet got 
over it, and it's all turned yaller, and my corn looks sickly, and my 
best cow got snake-bit last week and died, and the old lady is power- 
tul puny, and Sal she got to hankerin' arter a likely chap in the 
naborhood and married him, and he ain't got nothin', and I'm gettin' 
old and can't stand nigh as much as I used to, and I want you to see 
Brother Ben, and maybe he'll do somethin' — you see?" 

"Yes, I see. Uncle Bart, but where does your brother Ben live?" 

"Live? Why, he lives in Texas, I told ye! If you don't meet 
him in the road you can send him some word by somebody and he'U 
find you. He's over there, shore." 

In about an hour he met Dolph again, find slapping his foot down 
limberly, he seized Dolph's hand with a loving grip, and says he, 
"Hello, Dolph— gwine to Texas?" 

"Yes, Uncle Bart." 

"Will you tell Brother Ben that we are all doin' tol'able; the crop 



182 The Farm and The Fireside. 

looks 'bout as good as common, and the old 'oman's sweet and sassy as- 
ever, and Sal, she's married and done splendid. Good by, Dolph, 
God bless you, I love you." 

In about two more drinks, from that time. Uncle Bart come weavin' 
along, and, says he, "Hello, Dolph, gwine to Texas? — tell Brother 
Bren I've got — I've got the brest crop in the — State — to let me know 
how he's golonging along — if he wants anything — he shall — s'havit — 
he shan't — he shan't — she shan't suffer — as long as — as I've got nothin' 
— I can send him — twen or twelve-teen dollars — any time — fwarwell 
Dolph." 

About the close of the day Dolph found him on the lowermost step 
of the grocery, his head on his knees and his hat on the ground. 
Thinking it a poor place to spend the night, he aroused him to a glim- 
mering view of the situation. 

''Hello — Roff Doss," says he, "gwine to — Texas? — tell Brother 
Ben — hdVs afloat and the river's a-Tisin\" (Hie.) 



The Farm and The Fhieside. 183 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 



Christmas on the Farm. 

A happy New Year to you and your readers. I don't mean just the 
first day, but all the year round. I wish from my heart everybody 
was comfortable and contented and everybody lived in peace. I was 
ruminating over that kind of a millenium which would come if there 
were no bad folks — no lazy folks, no envy nor spite nor revenge — no 
bad passions but everybody took things easy and tried to make all 
around them happy. I wasent thinking about a religious millennium 
for I have known peoplo to make mighty good, honorable citizens 
who dident have any religion to spare and some who had a power of it 
on Sunday but was a juggling with the devil all the rest of the week. 
I was thinking about that class of folks who gave us no trouble and 
was always willing to tote fair. The law wasent made for them. I 
was thinking about the half a million of dollars it costs to run the 
State government a year and the half a million more it costs to run 
the counties and courts. If everybody was clever and kind we could 
save most all of it and in a few years everybody would have enough to 
be comfortable and to educate their children. The laws are made for 
bad people only and bad people costs us about all the surplus that's 
made. I know folks all around me who never violate a law or impose 
on their nabors or have a law suit, and it seems to me they ought not 
to be taxed like people who are always a fussing around the court- 
house and taking up the time of juries and witnesses. There ought to 
be some way to reward good citizens who give us no trouble or ex- 
pense, and to make folks who love strife and contention pay the 
expense of it. 

But I started out wishing for a happy New Year to everybody, and 
my opinion is that we can all make it happy if we try. Lets try. 
Lets turn over a new leaf. Lets have a Christmas all the year long. 
Lets keep the family hearth always bright and pleasant. Fussing 
and fretting don't pay. Solomon says its like water dropping on a 



184 The Farivi and The Fireside. 

rock — it will wear away a stone. The home of an unhappy discordant 
family is po home at all. It aint even a decent purgatory. The 
children won't stay there any longer than possible. They will emi- 
grate and I don't blame 'em. 

We've had a power of fun at my house the last few days. Mrs. 
Arp said she was going to town. She had a little passel of money 
hid away — nobody knew how much or where she got it, but sometimes 
when my loose change is laying around or left in my pockets, I've 
noticed that it disappears very mysteriously. It took about two hours 
to arrange herself for the expedition and she left us on a mission of 
peace on earth and good will to her children. 

*'Now William, you know the Christmas tree is to be put up in the 
hall. You have very good taste about such things and I know I can 
trust you without any directions. Put in that large square box in the 
smoke house and fasten it well to the bottom and put the top on the 
box for a table, and the girls will cover it nicely with some curtain 
calico. But I wiU not direct you for I know you can fix it all right. 
There are most too many limbs on the tree. There is a lot of pop 
corn already threaded and you can arrange them in festoons all over the 
tree, and the oranges that Dick sent us from Florida are locked up in the 
pantry. Thread them with a large needle and tie them all about on the 
limbs. The little wax candles and the tins to fasten them are in the 
drawer of my bureau. I've had them for several years and we will 
light up the tree to-night. The milk is ready to churn you know. 
Set the jar in the large tin bucket before you churn. It will save 
messing the floor. There are two turkeys in the coop — take the fat- 
test one — you can tell by holding them up in your hands. Ralph will 
help about the turkey. If you think one turkey will not be enough 
you had better kill a couple of chickens to go with it. I do hope all 
the children will be here, but I am afraid they won't. It does look 
like we might get together once a year anyhow. Now do attend to 
the turkey just as nice as you can, and leave the butter for me to work 
over when I come back. The front yard ought to be swept and the 
back yard is in an awful mess. But I will just leave everything to 
you. Keep the hall doors locked for the children mustent see the tree 
until Santa Claus comes. That mistletoe must be put over the parlor 
pictures. Hunt up a few more eggs if you can find them. Don't 



The Farm and The FiREsroE. 185 

disturb the mince pies in the closet — never mind about that either, for 
I've got the key in my pocket." 

It always did seem to me that ours was the noisiest, liveliest and 
most restless set that ever stumped a toe or fell into the branch. They 
"went through the measles, and the whoopin' cough, and chicken pox, 
and I don't know how many more things, without stoppin' to see what 
was the matter. A long time ago it was my opinion that I could reg- 
ulate 'em and raise 'em up accordin' to science, but I dident find that 
amount of co-operation which was necessary to make a fair experi- 
ment. On the contrary, I found myself regulated, besides being from 
time to time reminded by their maternal ancestor that the children 
were hern, and to this day she always speaks of 'em as "my children. 
Well, that's a fact ; her titleis mighty good to 'em I know, and on 
reflection I don't remember to have ever heard any dispute about who 
was the mother of a child. 

Well, we can sing the same old song — how*the' little folks had lived 
on tip-toe for many days waiting for Santa Glaus, and how that umble 
parlor was dressed in cedar and mistletoe, and the big back log put 
on, and the blazing fire built up, and the little stockings hung by the 
mantel, and everything got ready for the kind old gentleman. How 
that blue-eyed daughter played deputy to him, and was the keeper of 
everybody's secret; and shutting herself up in the parlor, arranged 
everything to her notion. How that when supper was over one of the 
boys slipped up the ladder to the top of the house with his cornet and 
tooted a few merry notes as the signal that Santa Claus had arrived. 
Then came the infantile squeal, and the youthful yell, and the Arpian 
shriek, and all rushed in wild commotion to the festive hall. Then 
came the joyful surprises, all mixed up with smiles and sunbeams, and 
exclamations and interjections. Tumultuous gladness gleamed and 
glistened all around, and the big bucket of family joy ran over. But 
everybody knows how it is hisself, and don't hanker after a history of 
other people's frolics. 

Well, the old year has buried its dead, and brought forth its living 
to take their places. And the time is at hand when everybody is 
going to open a new set of books, and turn over a new leaf and pass 
a few resolutions to be kept about three weeks. That's all right. Keep 
'em as long as you can, but don't repent of this year's sins too much 
at once. Don't get too much religion at a revival, for by and by the 



186 The Farm and The Fireside. 

snow will be gone, and the spring will open and the birds begin to 
sing and the flowers to bloom and man's conceit and independence 
come back to him and make him forget the winter and his promises, 
and strut around like he was running the whole macheen. But it's 
all right, judge, all Tight, as Cobe says. If a man is good accordin' 
to his capacity he can't be any gooder. 



The Farm and The FiREsmE. 187 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 



Democratic PRmcrPLES. 

How sweet are the sounds from home. How soothing the conso- 
solations of a discerning wife. I was feeling bad and she knew it. 
My cogitations over the election news were by no means jubilant. 
Silent and sad, with the newspaper open on my knee, I had been look- 
ing dreamily at the flickering flames for about ten minutes while Mrs. 
Arp sat near me sewing a patch on a pair of little breeches, when 
suddenly she inquired : 

"What did you expect Mr. Cleveland to do for you?" 

''Nothing," said I, ''nothing at all; but then you see, my dear, its 
highly important that a Democrat should be at the head of the 
nation." 

She never looked up nor for a moment stopped the graceful jerk of 
her needle and thread as she again inquired : 

"And what would a Democratic President do for you?" 

"Well, nothing — nothing at all," said I, "but then you see I feel 
interested in the success of our party and the promulgation of the 
great general principles of the Democracy. They are the hope of the 
country — the — the" 

"Please tell me something about those great principles," said she ; 
"what are they?" 

"Why, my dear, the great principles of our party are — they — are 
— they — why they are as old as the government. They underlie the 
foundation of Democratic institutions — they" — 

"But what are they?" said she. 

"Well, in the first place," said I, "when Thomas Jefferson was 
President he eliminated and set forth those principles in a series of 
state papers that have established in the mind of American patriots a 
reverence for democratic gcvernment that" — 

"But what are the principles?" said she. 

"Well as I was going on to say, the democratic institutions of our 
country have contributed more to the peservation of life, liberty and 
happiness than all other causes combined ; indeed the benefits that is 
adherent partake of are — they are" — 

"Justification, adoption, and sanctification," said she. 



188 The Farm and The FiREsroE. 

*'No, not exactly; not to that pious extent," said I. *' An enumer- 
ation of all those great principles would require more time than — 
than—" 

''Well, nevermind, William, never mind," said she affectionately, "I 
don't want to take up your valuable time, but I've been suspecting, 
for a long time, that those principles were to get in office and draw 
big salaries, and live high without work, and I reckon one party can 
do that about as well as another ; don't you ? " 

"Well, yes, my dear; there is, I confess, some foundation for your 
suspicions ; but then, you see, we are trying to nationalize the Ameri- 
can people through a national party, and become once more in frater- 
nal union, and — " 

''Well, you can't do that, William," said she. "They never did 
like us and we never did like them. We needn't have any more war, 
but we can be stately and distant like we have to be with nabors that 
are not congenial. If I was you I'd let national politics, as you call 
it, alone, for it's a jack o'lantern business and will never profit you. 
Look after your farm and your home affairs. You had better go out 
now and water the flowers in the pit, and see where Carl and Jessie 
are. The meal is nearly out, and you had better shell a turn of corn 
this evening, and while you are down there see if the old blue hen 
has hatched. Her time is about up. Stir around awhile and don't 
be looking so far away." 

Blessed woman ! I did stir 'round, and it made me feel better. I 
shall take no more interest in national politics until — well, until the 
next election. Consolation is a good thing. I'm going to be recon- 
ciled anyway and not give up the ship. Keckon I can stay at home 
and make corn and cotton, and frolic with the children, and ruminate 
on the uncertainties of life and bask in the sunshine of the family 
queen. 

"I am afraid you are hankering after an office," said she, "and that 
would take you away from home and leave me and the children alone. 
Office is a poor thing; when a man gets one, everybody is envious of 
him, and he has to give away about half his salary to keep his popu- 
larity. We've got a good home, and we are getting along in years, 
and I think we had better stay here, and be as happy as we can. Don't 
you, John Anderson, my Joe?" and she placed her little soft hand so 
gently and lovingly on my frosty brow, my reverend head, that I 



The Farm and The Fireside. 189 

havent thought about office since. I'm going to camp right here. 
Dr. Talmage has been preaching a sermon lately on married folks, 
and he says it's the way the women do that drives their husbands off 
at night to the club houses, and the stores, and the loafing places about 
town ; says they don't sweeten up on 'em like they did before they was 
married — don't come to the door to meet 'em — don't play the piano, 
but sorter give up, and are always complaining about something, or 
scolding the children or the servants. Well, maybe that's so to some 
extent, but my observation is that most of them fellers went to the 
club-houses and loafed around before they were married. I've knowed 
men to quit home and go up town every night because they said they 
was in the way while the children were being washed and put to bed. 
My wife, Mrs. Arp, taught me a long time ago that a man could per- 
form those little offices about as well as a woman, and if they are his; 
children he ought to be willing to do it. There the poor woman sits 
and sews and nurses the little chaps all the day long, tieing up the cut 
fingers and stumped toes, and doctoring the little tooth-ache, and leg- 
ache, and stomach-ache, and fixen 'em something to eat, and helping 
'em in a thousand little ways — while the lord of the house is chatting 
with his customers or sitting in his office with his feet upon a table or 
against the mantel-piece, and another feller just like him is doing the 
same thing, and they talk, and swap lies, and laugh, and carry on, 
and it's "ha, ha, ha," and "he, he, he,** and "ho, ho, ho;" and about 
dark he stretches and yawns and says, "Well, I must go home; it's 
about my supper time," and brother Talmage wants his poor wife ta 
be a watching at the window, and when she sees him coming she must 
run out and meet him 'twixt the house and the gate, and kiss him 
on his old smoky lips and say, "Oh, my dear, my darling, I'm so glad 
you have come." Well, that's all right, I reckon, if a woman ain't 
got nothing else to think about but fitting herself for heaven, but to 
my opinion a man ought to go home a little sooner than he does, and 
take a little more interest in things when he gets there. 

Women are a heap better than men if they have half a chance. 
They were created better. They begin the world better in their 
infancy Little girls don't go round throwing rocks at birds and 
shooting sling-shots at the chickens and running the calves all over the 
lot and setting the dogs on the barn cats and breaking up pigeons' nests 
and all that. Never saw a boy that didn't want to shoot a gun and 



190 The Farm and The Fireside. 

kill something. It's a wonder to me that these kind, tender hearted 
girls will have anything to do with 'em, but it seems like they will, 
and I reckon it's all right, but if I was a young marryin' woman I 
would be mighty particular about mating wdth a feller round town who 
belonged to half a dozen societies of one sort or another and was out 
every night. If I wanted a man all to myself I would look out for 
some farmer boy who would take me to the country where there ain't 
no clubs or Masonic lodge or Odd Fellows or Knights of Honor or 
Pythias or Scylla or Charybdis, or fire companies, or brass bands, or 
mardi gras, or pate defoi gras. I'd force him to love me whether he 
wanted to or not, for there wouldn't be anything to distract his atten- 
tion. But then, if a girl wants to fly round and be everybody's gal, 
and have all sorts of a time, why then she'd better marry in town. 
It's all a question of having one good man to love you, or a dozen 
siUy ones to admire. But as I ain't a woman, I suppose it's none of 
my business. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 191 



CHAPTER XXXVm. 



Politics. 



POLITICS is a hard ROAD TO TRAVEL. 

Politics are pretty hot, but no hotter than they were forty-five years 
ago between the Whigs and Democrats. I remember when Dr. 
Miller, the Demosthenes of the mountains, used to follow Judge 
Lumpkin on the grand rounds and whip him in everything but gettin* 
votes ; when the democratic school boy couldent nigh kiss a whig girl, 
nor buck up to her with honorable intentions, party spirit run high in 
them days, shore. There were party lawyers and doctors, and party 
clients and patients. If a Democrat got sick, he was afeared a Whig 
doctor would pizon him, and vice voce. There were party stores and 
blacksmith shops and gristmills. The line was drawn tite between 
'em in almost everything, and they hated one another. 

I remember the great Harrison jubilee, when the Whigs of our 
town fixed up for a big torch-light procession and hifalutin' speech- 
ifyin', and sent down to Decatur and borrowed a cannon, and hauled 
it up with four yoke of oxen, and was to fire it all day to make the 
Democrats feel just as bad as possible, and that night it poured down 
rain in great sluices, and ten of the Democrat boys stole the cannon 
out of a back yard and dragged it ofi* about two miles and hid it in a 
swamp, and the rain put out all the tracks before day. I've seen a 
heap of mad critters in my life and hearn tell of some, but nothin' 
was ever more madder than them Whig boys the next mornin'. They 
ripped and raved, and snorted, and cavorted, and tore 'round like 
wildcats and hunted everywhere, and sent ofi after some track dogs, 
but that cannon wasent found. It dident come to light until the next 
Democratic victory, when one dark night it went off right in the mid- 
dle of the town and like to have skeered everybody to death, but 
nobody know'd how it got there or who fired it. WeU, I tell you, 
them Whigs did hate powerfully to haul that gun back to Decatur, 



192 The Farm and The Fireside. 

shore. Ask Luster if they dident, and some of these days, after he 
is elected, ask him in a confidential way who stole it. But don't you 
tell Dr. Jim Alexander, nor his brother Tom, for I don't know 
exactly how long it takes 'em to get over that sort of a thing. 

It dident matter much in them days whether a man was a Methodist 
or a Baptist, honest or tricky ; whether he was smart or sorter thick- 
headed, but it did matter a good deal whether he was a Whig or a 
Democrat. When Polk was nominated everybody was waitin' for the 
news, and as soon as the postmaster jerked the wrapper off the news- 
paper and read it out to the crowd, Nic Omberg threw up his hat and 
said he was the very best man they could have nominated, and then 
leaned over and asked the postmaster what he said his name was. 
Omberg was a fair sample of all of 'em. He was a good man and a 
devoted Democrat, and it would have been all the same to him if they 
had nominated Sam Patch. I don't suppose there was one in a thou- 
sand could have told the diff^erence between Whig principles and Dem- 
ocratic principles. The fact is, there wasent very much — none to 
speak of, except the spoils of office. They were like folks are about 
their religion. Mighty few can tell the diff^erence between one church 
and another church. Most of 'em are just what their fathers were, 
and that's reason enough without botherin' their brains with any other, 

n^ ^ 't^ ^t^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ 

If our party ever gets in office again we are going to run the politi- 
cal machine on merit and fitness and to suit the people everywhere. 
We are not going to turn a good man out just because he is a Kepub- 
lican. If the community he lives in are satisfied with him we will let 
him stay. We will make a few more offices and raise all the salaries 
a little, I reckon, for our people are mighty poor and powerful hun- 
gry, and have waited long. We are going to give protection to the 
manufacturers and free trade to the consumers. We are going to buy 
the farmers' corn at a dollar a bushel, and sell it to the poor for twenty- 
five cents. We are going to issue ten thousand millions of greenbacks 
so that everybody can have a hat full, and then we will build rail- 
roads to every town and open all the creeks and mackadamize all the 
roads, and give all soldiers and widows and orphans pensions, and 
have a general jubilee all over the country. I am going to set Cobe 
up in a phaton behind a spanking team just to see him ride and bob 
up serenely as it springs up and down over the bumps in the road. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 193 

I'll bet you couldn't drag Cobe into a pbaton with a steam engine. He 
has got a little old truck wagon and won't even put a plank across the 
body for fear of getting sea sick, but he just sets down in the bed and 
goes singing along : 

Old Eve she did an apple pull, 
And then she filled her apron full ; 
Old Adam he came hobbing around 
And spied the peelings on the ground. 

Old Noah he did build an ark, 
Of white oak splits and hickory bark; 
The animals they come in two by two, 
The elephant and the kangaroo. 

And then they come in three by three, 
'Possom and coon and bumble bee; 
Old Noah kicked his old tom cat 
For not diskiverin ara rat. 

And ever and anon he punches his claybank mule and says, '^ Peg 
along y Tatum." 

But a nice little office under the State is a good thing, and gener- 
ally lasts a long time, for our people are kind and considerate and 
don't turn folks out for nothing. I wouldent mind having an office 
that was a sort of a "sine qua non," as old Major Dade called it — an 
office with good, fair pay and not much to do but boss. I always did 
like to boss. Bossing comes natural to the Anglo-Saxon. They like 
it. A few years ago the Rome railroad let out a contract for a thou- 
sand cords of wood to two fellers and they sub-let it in jobs to eight 
other fellers, and they sub-let it again to some niggers, and there was 
ten darkeys doing the work and ten white men bossing the job, and 
all of 'em made some money out of it and were happy — so that was 
all right all round, but I much rather play boss than darkey. Hadent 
you? 



194 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 



Harvest Time. 

The harvest has begun. The harvest sun is shining by day and the 
moon by night. Our Burt oats, that we sowed in March, have come 
in ahead of the wheat and are falling before the cradle blade. It is a 
charming scene. The good, old-fashioned way is not a bad way after 
all. I've got a reaper and shall use it in the low grounds on the 
wheat, but the everlasting rains this spring made too many little ruts 
and furrows on the upland, and the cradles are better. The machine 
jolts and bumps around so that Ralph could hardly keep his seat. 
But the oats are good. I have never seen a better upland crop. Carl 
and Jessie follow along in the wake of the cradlers and tie up their lit- 
tle bundles, and when they get tired of that they pile them into doz- 
ens, set them up into shocks and are proud of their work. What a 
pity it is that w^e can't all make play of our work. How fond the 
children are of trying to do grown folks' work. Carl wants a little 
cradle to reap with and thinks he could do it splendid, but it most kills 
him to take a bucket of water to the field. That sore on his foot 
where he snagged it on a nail hurts awful bad then, and he limps all 
the w^ay to the spring and back, but he can trot to the dewberry patch 
or the mulberry tree as lively and gay as a colt in the meadow. 
Grown folks are that way, too. I've known some mighty nice 
girls get tired, most broke down cleaning up the house, cooking, 
sewing and the -like, but they could wake up to the music that 
night and dance till the rooster crowed for morning. We can all 
do what we want to do, and we go at it with alacrity. It is 
easier to go to a picnic than it is to church. But labor and toil has 
a sweet reward. We will never reap if we do not sow'. The harvest 
that is now at hand is one of the great lessons of life, for our life is 
like a field and our years like the acres, and our months and weeks 
and days and minutes are the roods and rods and yards and feet which 
Bub-divide the whole. Some portions are well sown and tended and 



The Farm and The FiREsmE. 195 

some are not, but a good man will make an average crop. We may 
fail here and there, and have our little sins and weaknesses, but at the 
last a man must be measured by his average crop. Character is not 
made or lost in a day or a week, but it takes a life and we can never 
write a true epitaph until this life is closed and we write it on the 
tomb. 

But a few days ago the fields were beautifully green, and the grain 
bent its proud heads gracefully before the gentle breeze and seemed 
conscious of its life and health and consequence. It reminded me of 
man in his prime, moving to and fro upon the earth acquiring wealth 
or fame or pleasure, and all unmindful of the reaper. But soon he 
ripens and must fall and make way for another crop. If the proud 
has born fruit golden fruit, it is well, and his mission in life is accom- 
plished ; but if clogged and tangled and corrupted with cheat and 
cockle and smut and rust and brambles, the crop is a failure and ought 
to have been cut down while it was green. 

I had w^orked hard all the morning helping Mrs. Arp take up her 
carpets for the summer. The hay and dust that was under had to be 
swept up ever so gently — yes, gently — that was the word she used — 
"gently, now, William; you are raising the dust and it will be all 
over the house. Don't be in such a hurry — gently." I got it all up 
after a fashion and put out of the window in the wheelbarrow, and 
put the carpets on the fence ready for beating, and then 1 took her 
long handled broom and swept the walls, and the ceiling, and the cor- 
nices, and behind the pictures, and then our chunk of a darkey 
brought water and washed up the floors, and the girls worked on the 
bedsteads with kerosene and turpentine and corrosive sublumate and 
rat poison and damnation powder, and I don't know what all, and this 
morning when my wife was making up her bed and lifted up the cor- 
ner of the mattress she discovered one of the biggest, fattest ones you 
ever saw, and her heart sank down within her and she reclined on a 
chair in despair. I was sorry for her, I was, for the pesky varmints are 
her eternal horror, and if I was rich I would build her a brand new 
house and fill it with brand new furniture, all made of china wood or 
camphor wood. I care nothing about these silent perambula- 
tors myself, and it has been hinted to me on more than one occa- 
sion that it is because I am tough and old and alligatorish, which I 
^reckon is so, though I do know some women who are no spring chick- 



196 The Farm and The Fireside. 

ens themselves. But I do sufler from the varmints anyhow, and have 
my sleep broken, for sometimes I have to get up in the night and help 
search for them, and when found I assume a theatrical attitude and 
exclaim in the beautiful language of Mr. Shakspeare : ''How now, 
ye secret, dark and midnight hags ! What is it ye do ? " 

Well, I took Mrs. Arp down in the low land wheat this evening, 
where it is thick and green and tall, and I explained to her all about 
wheat being first in the boot and then in the milk and then in the 
dough, and as we walked along in a water furrow I said, it reminded 
me of the old song of "Coming Through the Eye," that I would 
change it a little, and say : 

If a body meet a body coming through the wheat, 
And a body kiss a body, wouldent it be sweet. 

And she smiled and said the rye of the poet was not a field but a 
rocky branch named Rye, and the lassie was wading through it when 
her lover met her on the rocks and kissed her. So that knocked all 
the poetry out of the situation, and I said no more on the subject. 
I've seen the day when that wheat field would have been as good a 
place for the business as a branch, and if anything, better. While we 
sauntered along old Bob White was whistling to his loving mate, and 
we talked over the days of our childhood, when we used to follow the 
reapers in the field and get the partridge eggs from the nests, and have 
a big frolic over them when they were boiled, and how we caught the 
young rabbits in their nest, and how everything was so fresh and 
bright and rosy, and now how serious and earnest everything had 
become. Such is life and we cannot help it, and I don't want to help 
it. No matter how old or how poor, there is some happiness for us 
all if we will find it. The trouble with most of us is we search for it 
too far away — away off yonder somewhere when it is right near us. 
Yes, within our reach, if we will only see it. **Carpe diem," says 
the poet — *' enjoy the day." Enjoy to-day and every day as it comes 
and don't let old father time cheat us out of a moment. 



The Farm and The FiKEsmE. 197 



CHAPTER XL. 



The Old and the New. 

The aristocracy of the South was, before the war, mainly an aris- 
tocracy of dominion. The control of servants or employees is 
naturally elevating and ennobling, much more so than the mere pos- 
session of other property. The Scriptures always mention the num- 
ber of servants when speaking of a patriarch's censequence in the 
land. This kind of aristocracy brought with it culture and dignity of 
bearing. Dominion dignifies a man just as it did in the days of the 
centurion who said, "I say unto this man go, and he goeth, and to 
another come, and he cometh." Dominion is the pride of a man — 
dominion over something. A negro is proud if he owns a possum 
dog, and can make him come and go at his pleasure. A poor man is 
proud if he owns a horse and a cow, and some razor-back hogs. The 
thrifty farmer is proud if he owns some bottom land and a good horse 
and top buggy, and can take the lead in his country church and country 
politics. The big boy loves dominion over his little brother, and the 
father over all. But the old Anglo-Saxon stock aspires to a higher 
degree of mastery. They glory in owning men, and it makes but lit- 
tle difference whether the men are their dependents or their slaves. 
The glory is all the same if they have them in their power. Wealthy 
corporations and railroad kings and princely planters have dominion 
over their employees, and regulate them at their pleasure. It is not a 
dominion in law, but is almost absolute in fact, and there is nothing 
wrong or oppressive about it when it is humanely exercised. In fact, 
it is generally an agreeable relation between the poor laborer and the 
rich employer. An humble poor man, with a lot of little children 
coming on, loves to lean upon a generous landlord, and the landlord 
is proud of the poor man's homage. 

The genuine Bill Arp used to say he had rather belong to Col. 
Johnson than be free, for he had lived on the Colonel's land for 



198 The Farm and The Fireside. 

twenty years, and his wife and children have never suffered, crop or 
no crop; for the Colonel's wife threw away enough to support them, 
and they were always nigh enough to pick it up. 

He was asked one day how he was going to vote, and replied: **I 
don't know until I ax Colonel Johnson, and I don't recon he can tell 
me till he sees Judge Underwood, and maybe Underwood won't 
know till he hears from Aleck Stephens, but who in the dickens tells 
little Aleck how to vote I'll be dogged if I know." 

The dominion of the old aristocracy of the South was not over 
their own race, as it was at the North, but over another, and it was 
• absolute both in law and fact. 

Hence it naturally grew into an oligarchy of slave-owners, and the 
poorer whites were kept under the ban. There was a line of social 
caste between them, and it was widening into a gulf, for the poor 
white man could not compete with slave labor, any more than the 
farmer or mechanic can now compete with convict labor. This kind 
of slave aristocracy gave dignity and leisure to the rich ; and Solomon 
says that in leisure there is wisdom ; and so these men became our 
statesmen and jurists and law-makers, and they were shining lights in 
the councils of the nation; but it was an aristocracy that was 
exclusive, and it shut out and overshadowed the masses of the com- 
mon people, like a broad spreading oak overshadows and withers the 
undergrowth beneath it. 

But now there are only two general classes of people at the South 
— those w^ho have seen better days and those who havent. The first 
class used to ride and drive, but most of them now take it a-foot or 
stay at home. Seventy-five per cent, of them are the families of old 
Henry Clay Whigs. Thirty-five years ago they were the patrons of high 
schools and colleges, and stocked the learned professions with an 
annual crop of high-strung graduates, who swore by Henry Clay, and 
Fillmore, and Stephens, and Toombs, and John Bell, and the Code of 
Honor. They were proud of their birth and lineage, their wealth and 
culture, and when party spirit ran high and fierce they banded to- 
gether against the pretensions of the struggling Democracy. When I 
was a young man, a Whig girl deemed it an act of amiable conde- 
scension to go to a party with a Democratic boy. But the wear and 
tear of the war, the loss of their slaves, and a mortgage or two to lift, 
broke most of these old families up, though it didn't break down their 



The Farm and The Fireside. 199 

family pride. They couldn't stand it like the Democrats, who lived in 
log cabins, and wore wool hats and copperas breeches. 

I speak with freedom of the old Georgia Democracy, for I was one 
of them. The wealth and refinement of the State was in the main 
centered in that party known as the old-line Whigs. Out of 160 
students in our State University, 45 years ago, 130 of them were the 
sons of Whigs. I felt politically lonesome in their society, and was 
just going over to the Whig party when I fell in love with a little 
Whig angel w^ho was flying around. This hurried me up, and I was 
just about to go over to that party, when suddenly the party came 
over to me. I don't know yet whether that political somersault lifted 
me up or pulled the little angel down — but I do know she wouldn't 
have me, and at last I mated with a Democratic seraph who had 
either more piety or less discrimination. She took me, and she's got 
me yet; she surrendered, but I am the prisoner. 

These grand old gentlemen of the olden time were the pioneers in 
all the great enterprises of their day. They sowed the seed and we 
are reaping the harvest. They planted the tree and we are gathering 
the fruit. They laid the foundations of the proud structure of our 
commonwealth, and we have built upon it. My good old father took 
$5,000 of stock in the Georgia Railroad before it was built. He kept 
it for twelve years without a dividend, and when financial embarrass- 
ment overtook him the stock was down at its lowest point, and he sold 
it to Judge Hutchins at $27 a share. There was a gloom over the 
family that night, but I tried to disperse it, for I told them I had 
just made a matrimonial arrangement with the judge's daughter, and 
maybe the stock matter would come out all right ; and it did. I got 
it all back for nothing, and the judge's lovely daughter to boot, and 
it was the best trade I ever made in my life. 

Most of these old families are poor; but they are proud. They are 
highly respected for their manners and their culture. They are 
looked upon as good stock, and thoroughbred, but withdrawn from 
the turf. Their daughters carry a high head and a flashing eye, stand 
up square on their pastern joints, and chafe under the bit. They 
come just as nigh living as they used to as they possibly can. They 
dress neatly in plain clothes, wear starched collars and corsets, and a 
perfumed handkerchief. They do up their hair in the fashion, take 
Godey's Lady's Book or somebody's Bazaar. If they are able to hire a 



200 The Farm and The Fireside. 

domestic, the darkey finds out in two minutes that free niggers don't rank 
any higher in that family than slaves used to. The negroes who know 
their antecedents have the highest respect for them, and will say Mas' 
William or Miss Julia with the same deference as in former days. One 
would hardly learn from their general deportment that they cleaned 
up the house, made up the beds, washed the dishes, did their own 
sewing and gave music lessons — in fact, did most everything but wash 
the family clothes. They won't do that. I've known them to milk 
and churn, and sweep the back yard, and scour the brass, but I've 
never seen one of them bent over the wash-tub yet, and I hope I 
never will. I don't like to see any one reduced below their position, 
especially if they were born and raised to it. In the good old times 
their rich and patriarchal father lived like Abraham, and Jacob, and 
Job. They felt like they were running an unlimited monarchy on a 
limited scale. When a white child was born in the family it was ten 
dollars out of pocket, but a little nigger was a hundred dollars in, and 
got fifty dollars a year better for twenty years to come. 

The economy of the old plantation was the economy of waste. Two 
servants to one white person was considered moderate and reasonable. 
In a family of eight or ten — with numerous visitors and some poor 
kin — there were generally a head cook and her assistant, a chamber- 
maid, a seamstress, a maid or nurse for every daughter and a little nig 
for every son, whose business it was to trot around after him and hunt 
up mischief. Then there was the stableman and carriage driver and 
the gardener and the dairy woman and two little darkies to drive up 
the cows and keep the calves off while the milking was going on. 
Besides these there were generally half a dozen little chaps crawling 
around or picking up chips, and you could hear them bawling and 
squalling all the day long, as their mothers mauled them and spanked 
them for something or for nothing with equal ferocity. 

But the good old plantation times are gone — the times when these 
old family servants felt an affectionate abiding interest in the family, 
when our good mothers nursed their sick and old helpless ones, and 
their good mothers waited so kindly upon their '' mistis," as they called 
her, and took care of the little children by day and by night. Our 
old black mammy was mighty dear to us children, and we loved her, 
for she was always doing something to please us, and she screened us 
from many a whipping. It would seem an unnatural wonder, but 



The Farm and The Fireside. 201 

nevertheless it is true, that these faithful old domestics loved their 
master's children better than their own, and they showed it in num- 
berless ways without any hypocrisy. Our children frolicked with 
theirs, and all played together by day and hunted together by night, 
and it beat the Arabian Nights to go to the old darkey's cabin of a 
winter night and hear him tell of ghosts and witches and jack-o'-lan- 
terns and wild cats and grave-yards, and we would listen with faith 
and admiration until we didn't dare look round, and wouldn't have 
gone back to the big house alone for a Avorld full of gold. Bonaparte 
said that all men were cowards at night, but I reckon it was these old 
darkeys that made us so, and we have hardly recovered from it yet. 
When I used to go a-courting I had to pass a grave-yard in the suburbs 
of the little village, and it was a test of my devotion that I braved its 
terrors on the darkest night and set at defiance the wandering spirits 
that haunted my path. Mrs. Arp appreciated it then, for she would 
follow me to the door when I left and anxiously listen to my retiring 
footsteps. But now she declares she could hear me running up that 
hill by the grave-yard like a fast-trotting pony on a shell road. 

It was a blessed privilege to the boys of that day to go along with 
the cotton wagons to Augusta, of to Macon or Columbus, and camp 
out at night and hear the trusty old wagoners tell their wonderful 
adventures, and it was a glorious time when they got back home again, 
and brought sugar and coffee and molasses, and had shoes all 'round 
for both white and black, and the little wooden measures in them, with 
the names written upon every one. They had genuine corn shuckings 
in those days, and corn songs that were honest, and sung with a will 
that beat a camp meeting chorus — and they had Christmas, too, for 
white folks and black folks. Little red shawls and head handkerchiefs, 
and jack knives, and jewsharps, and tobacco, and old-fashioned pipes 
were laid up for the family servants, who always managed to slip up 
about break of day with a whisper of " Christmasgif " before the 
family were fairly awake. But it's all over now — and they are gone. 
Like Job of old these proud old masters have all been put upon trial. 
They lost their noble sons in the army, and their property soon after. 
The extent of their afilictions no one will ever know, for the heart 
knoweth its own bitterness, but they have long since learned how to 
suffer and be strong. 

I have now in mind a proud old family, living in quiet obscurity — 



202 The Farm and The Fieeside. 

the children of one of Georgia's noblest governors, a statesman of 
national reputation. They are poor, but they are not subdued. Their 
children work in the field and milk the cows and chop the firewood, 
but they have never forgotten or dishonored their grand old ancestor 
from whom they sprung. I recall another one who, forty-five years 
ago, represented us in the National Congress — who was for many years 
almost a monarch in his rule over hundreds of employees, and w^hose 
draft was honored for thousands of dollars. With tottering gait and 
trembling fingers he now bargains for a nickel's worth of soda, but 
still is grand and noble in his poverty. Always cheerful, he welcomes 
those who visit him with the same kindness and dignity which charac- 
terized him in his better days. 

I believe the day of prosperity is coming back, and the children of 
the present generation will yet reap an inestimable blessing from what 
seemed to be a great calamity. 

"Hard indeed was the contest for freedom and the struggle for 
independence," but harder still has been the struggle of these old 
families to live up to the good old style with nothing hardly to live 
upon. Society is exacting, and then there were the long-indulged 
habits of elegance and ease which a^e hard to be broken. The young 
can soon learn to serve themselves, but the middle-aged and old found 
it no labor of love to begin life anew on an humble scale. 

What a change it was to the refined and dignified housewife when: 
the chambermaid withdrew and S3t up for herself, and the good old 
cook, who had grown fat and greasy with service, departed from the 
old homestead in search of freedom, and the good lady, who was well 
versed in the theory of cooking, had to take her first lesson in its 
practice. The times have wonderfully changed since then — some 
things for better, some for worse. The grand old aristocracy is pass- 
ing away. Some of them escaped the general wreck that followed 
the war, and have illustrated by their energy and liberality the doc- 
trine of the survival of the fittest — :but their name is not legion. A 
new and hardier stock has come to the front — that class which prior to 
the war was under a cloud, and are now seeing their better days. The 
pendulum has swung to the other side. The results of the war made 
an opening for them and developed their energies. With no high 
degree of culture, they have nevertheless proved equal to the struggle 
up the rough hill of life, and now play an important part in running 



The Farm and The Fireside. 208 

the financial machine. Their practical energy has been followed by 
thrift and a general recuperation of our wasted fields, and fenceless 
farms and decayed houses. They have proved to be our best farmers 
and most prosperous merchants and mechanics. They now constitute 
the solid men of the State, and have contributed largely to tlie build- 
ing up of our schools and churches, our factories and railroads, and 
the development of our mineral resources. They are shrewd and 
practical and not afraid of work. The two little ragged brothers who 
sold peanuts in Rome in 1860 are now her leading and most wealthy 
merchants. Two young men who then clerked for a meagre salary 
are now among the merchant princes of Atlanta. These are but 
types of the modern self-made Southerner — a class w^ho form the most 
striking contrast to the stately dignity and aristocratic repose of tlie 
grand old patriarchs and statesmen, whose beautiful homes and long 
lines of negroe houses adorned the hills and groves of the South some 
thirty years ago. 

But the children of the old patricians have come down some and 
the children of the common people have come up some and they have 
met upon a common plain and are now working happily together both 
in social and business life. Spirit and blood have united with energy 
and muscle, and it makes a splendid team — the best all-round team 
the South has ever had. 

But there is one feature about the new order of things which has 
surprised and bewildered the most philosophical minds, and that is the 
disposition which this generation has to educate their daughters. In 
the old ante bellum times the sons were the special objects of the 
parents' care. They gave to both a first-class education if they could, 
but if either had to be neglected it was always the daughters. The 
female colleges were lew, while the male colleges abounded all over the 
land, both North and South, and were thronged with the sons of 
wealthy and aristocratic Southerners. But now the rule is reversed, 
the boys are sacrificed and the girls are sent to college. 

This is all very well, I reckon, and if it is not, I don't see how we 
are going to help it. The trouble is to find out who these college girls 
are going to marry. I don't suppose they will marry anybody until 
somebody asks them, but it's natural and very proper for man and wife 
to be pretty much alike, mentally and socially. They should, as it 
were, class together, like the cotton buyer classes his cotton, or the 



204 The Farm and The Fireside. 

merchant his sugar, or the farmer his cattle, or the geologist his strata 
of rocks. I don't allude to property at all, for that is about the last 
consideration that secures real happiness in wedded life, though I 
wouldn't advise any poor man to marry a poor girl just because she is 
poor, and I hope none of these girls will ever refuse a rich man 
because he is rich. Money is a right good thing in a family, and no 
sensible girl will turn up her nose at it. Money is a social apology 
for lack of brains or education or graceful manners, but it's no apol- 
ogy for lack of honesty or good principles. Money enables a man to 
step up higher in the social circle than he could do without it. Hence, 
we see a rich man without culture ranks pretty well with a poor man 
with culture. Hence it is that lawyers and doctors and teachers and 
preachers and editors, however poor, move in the same strata with 
bankers and merchants, however rich. The difference is that money 
may be lost, but education and culture cannot be ; and when an uned- 
ucated man loses his money he loses caste, and must step down and out. 
The value of a man's money depends, however, upon the manner in 
which he obtained it. Shoddy fortunes don^'t amount to anything. 
They may shine for a while in gilded coaches and splendid halls, but 
they will not last. If the possessor does not lose it his children will 
spend it, and leave the world as poor as their father came into it. A 
fortune gained in a year rarely sticks to anybody. Five years is not 
secure. But one gained by the pursuit of an honorable calling for 
ten, twenty or thirty years brings with it that high social position 
which justly entitles a man to be called one of the aristocracy. It is 
a great mistake for anybody to desire a fortune to come suddenly. It 
would embarrass him. A big pile of surplus money will make a fool 
of most anybody on short acquaintance. It takes a man several years 
to learn its best uses, and to handle it with becoming dignity. If a 
man nev^er rode in a phieton behind a spanking team it takes him a 
good while to get used to that. He doesn't know exactly what to do 
with his hands or his feet, whether to lean complacently back or cau- 
tiously forward. If the vehicle crosses a sudden rise, he doesn't rise 
with it in graceful undulations, but humps himself awkwardly and 
imagines that everybody is observing his conscious embarrassment. 
Money-making sense is very good sense, but I know a wealthy young 
man without culture who was made to believe that an ostrich egg which 
he saw in a museum was laid by a giraffe. I know a nabob in Atlanta 



The Farm and The Fireside. 205 

who subscribed for Appleton's Cyclopedia, and when they came said 
that he didn't know there was but one volume and refused to pay for 
any more. And there is another one there whom I have known since 
his boyhood when he plowed barefooted in a rocky field over treadsafts 
and dewberry vines at ten dollars a month. He now swims in shoddy 
luxury and lucky wealth. He took me through his new and elegant 
mansion. He talked gushingly about his liberry room. He showed 
me a beautiful piece of furniture in the dining room and when I said 
it was unique he said no it was a sideboard. When I inquired after 
the health of his wife he said she had a powerful bad pain in her face 
and the doctor said it was newralogy but he believed she had an ulster 
in her nose. 

But what troubles me is that these girls are climbing up where there 
are no boys, or very few at most. Mental culture begets mental supe- 
riority, and that raises one socially and puts him or her in a higher 
strata. There are, I suppose, not less than ten educated girls in the 
South to every educated young man ; but where are the boys ? They 
are in the stores or the workshops or on the farms. It did not use to 
be so, but the bottom rail is now on the top. I don't know that it can 
be helped, for the war left our people so poor they can't send all their 
children off to college, and so they send the girls and put the boys to 
work to pay for it. The consequence will be that these girls when 
they go home can't find anybody good enough for them. A nice, 
clever, country girl graduated last year^ and when she came home and 
asked her farmer brother to name his fine colt Bucephalus, after Alex- 
ander's famous horse, he said, ''Why, I didn't know that Tom Alexan- 
der had any horse." 

Well, now, you see a college girl is not going to marry a man like 
that — that is, not right away quick, on the first asking. She will wait 
a year or so at least for some chevalier Bayard or ^mne first honor 
man to come along, but by and by she will get tired waiting, for he 
won't come, and then, in a kind of desperation, she will mate with 
some good, honest, hard-working youth, and educate him afterwards. 
Maybe this will all work out very well in the long run ; for it's the 
mother who makes the man, and if she is smart, so will her children 
be. Of course it will delay and put off these early marriages, which 
our wives and mothers say are all wrong. I have been very intimate 
with a lady for thirty-five years, who was married at sweet sixteen, but 



206 The Farm and The Fireside. 

she thinks it would be awfal for her daughters to do likewise unless 
the offer was a very splendid one in all respects. I recon that was 
the reason why she went off so soon. 

I did not marry my first love, but Mrs. Arp did — bless her heart — 
and she now declares I took advantage of her innocent youth and 
gave her no chance to make a choice among lovers. That is so, I 
reckon, for I was in a powerful hurry to secure the prize and pressed 
my suit with all diligence for fear of accidents. Once before I had 
loved and lost, and I thought it would have killed me, but it dident, 
for I never sprung from the suicide stock. I had loved a pretty little 
school girl amazingly. I would have climbed the Chimborazo moun- 
tains and fought a tiger for her — a small tiger. And she loved me, I 
know, for the evening before she left for her distant home I told her 
of my love and my devotion, my adoration and aspiration and admira- 
tion and all other "ations," and the palpitating lace on her bosom told 
me how fast her heart was beating, and I gently took her soft hand in 
mine and drew her head upon my manly shoulder and kissed her. 
Delicious feast — delightful memory. It lasted me a year, I know, and 
has not entirely faded yet, for it was the first time I had ever tasted 
the nectar on a school girl's lips. I never mention it at home — no, 
never — but I think of it sometimes on the sly — yes, on the sly. I 
never saw her any more, for she never came back. ' In a year or so 
she married another feller and was happy, and, in course of time I 
married Mrs. Arp, and was happy too. So it is all right and no loss 
on our side. 

But what are the college girls going to do when they graduate and 
settle down in the old homestead? It will be right hard to descend 
from the beautiful heights of astronomy, the enchanting fields of 
chemistry and botany, the entertaining grottos of history and geology, 
and the charming chambers of music and social pleasures down to the 
drudgery of washing dishes, scouring brass kettles, making little 
breeches, and doing all sorts of household and domestic work. It will 
take a good strong resolution and common sense and filial respect to do 
it, and do it gracefully and cheerfully, and be always ready to bright- 
en up the family hearth with her educated smile. Such girls are not 
only happy in themselves, but they make others happy, and that is 
the highest, purest and noblest of all ambitions. 

Be content, then, with your lot, young ladies, and enjoy what you 



The Farm and The Fireside. 207 

have got; and if you haven't got anything, then enjoy what you 
haven't got, and be contented still. 

I know every true man wishes from his heart it was so that the 
dear creatures did not have to work, only when they felt like it. I 
never see ladies of culture and refinement doing the household drudg- 
ery but what it shocks my humanity, and I feel like Mr. Bergh 
ought to establish a society for the prevention of cruelty to angels. 
The burden of bearing children and raising them is trial enough, and 
involves more of the wear and tear of the sinews of life than all the 
men have to endure. Mothers are entitled to all the rest and indul- 
gence that is possible, and those who 'have brought up eight or ten 
children ought to be retired on a comfortable pension from the Gov- 
ernment. There is an old gander at my house who for four weeks 
stood guard by his mate as she set on her nest. She plucked the 
down from his breast and covered her eggs, and when she left them 
for food he escorted her to the grass and escorted her back with a 
pride and a devotion that was impressive. My respect for geese has 
been greatly enlarged since I made their more intimate acquaintance. 

But after all there need be no serious or gloomy apprehension con- 
cerning the future of the sons and daughters of the South. If the 
boys cannot go to college they will gather culture by absorption and 
association, and acquire property by diligence and industry. Our 
young men have learned that it is best to remain in the land of their 
birth, and few emigrate to another clime; and indeed the attachments 
of the Southern people to their neighbors and kindred and country 
are stronger than those of our Northern brethren. Our society is not 
made up of a mixture of all races. We have a common ancestry, 
and have assimilated in thought and habits and customs and languages 
and principles. Added to this we have the influence of a genial 
climate, mild winters, fertility of soil, lovely sunsets, variegated 
scenery, with fruits and flowers abounding everywhere to sweeten and 
make glad the rosy days of our childhood. We have more latitude 
and longitude. Our homes are more spacious, and our manhood is 
comforted with the memories of our youth, when we roamed over 
the fields and forest and hunted the deer and turkey by day and the 
coon and 'possum by night. It is a hard struggle for our young men 
to emigrate from the homes of their childhood, and when they do, a 



208 The Farm and The FiREsroE. 

resolution to return at some future day lingers with them like a sweet 
perfume and comforts them on their weary way. 

Not so with the sons of New England, or the remote, inclement 
North. Their earliest training is to go — go West — go anywhere for 
business. They snap the cord that binds them to home and State and 
kindred as they would snap a thread. I do not know a people upon 
earth who have less emotional love or veneration for home and the 
local memories of childhood. I speak respectfully of the descendants 
of the Puritans. I speak advisedly, for I have mingled with them 
and know them, and have many dear relatives in the old Bay State. 
I had three male cousins in one family, and they were oif almost as 
soon as they were out of their teens — one to Australia, one to Cali- 
fornia, and the other to Nevada. They are at home in every land 
but ours. We have been calling them kindly ever since the war. We 
have tendered the olive branch, and gave cordial welcome to those 
who did venture among us. We have sold them cotton, and sugar, 
and rice, and tobacco, and bought their patent medicines, and fly- 
traps, and picture papers, and Yankee notions, and gimcracks, and go 
to all their circuses and monkey shows. I know we whipped them 
pretty bad during the late war — that is, at first and all along the 
middle, but at last they got the best of it, and it looks like they ought 
to be satisfied, and make friends. We used to think slavery was the 
cause of all this alienation, but slavery has been abolished 28 years. 
Now, the Yankee is an Anglo-Saxon, and has many admirable traits 
of character, some of which we have not, but need, and we have been 
living in the hope that he would come down and live with us, and 
teach us economy and contrivance, and mix up and marry with us, 
and give us a cross that would harmonize the sections, but he will not. 
The last census shows that there are 180,000 more females than males 
in the New England States. Before the war their educated young 
ladies used to venture South and teach school, and our young men 
and widowers married them, and they made good wives and good 
mothers; but they don't come now, and their young men keep going 
off^, and the poor girls up there are in a bad fix. I have been trying 
to persuade some of our poor and proud young men who seem so hard 
to please at home, to go up there and take the pick of the lot, and 
bring them down here, and they say they would if the girls would 
send them the money to travel on. 



The Farm and The Fikeside. 209 

My good father was born in Massachusetts. He came South just 
seventy years ago, with a cargo of brick, and never returned. Well, 
he couldn't return, for he was shipwrecked, and lost his cargo, and 
had nothing to return on. My good mother was born in Charleston, 
and was hurried away from there to Savannah during the yellow 
fever panic of 1814. She went to school to my father, and he married 
her. When I was old enough to understand my peculiar lineage, I 
wondered that I could get along with myself as well as I did. When 
a small chap, I used to bite myself and bump my head against the 
door; but my good mother always said I couldn't help it, for it was 
South Carolina fighting Massachusetts. It was a storm that lost my 
father's cargo, and caused him to settle down in Savannah. It was a 
fearful pestilence that hurried my mother away from Charleston when 
she was an orphan child. So I was the child of storm and pestilence 
and two belligerent States — how could I behave. But for these 
remarkable combinations, I reckon my father would have lived and 
died in the old Bay State, and my mother in Charleston; but what 
would have become of me ? But fifty years' residence made my father 
a good Southern man, and the Palmetto Cross made me a high-strung 
rebel, and on the eve of secession, I loaded my pen with paper bullets 
and shot them right and left. We soon found out it would take 
some other sort to whip them in fight, and I joined the army, and 
succeeded in killing about as many of them as they of me. But we 
have all made friends again after a fashion, and now love one another's 
money with a devotion that is unaffected and supreme. 

In recurring to the grand old days that are past, I sometimes feel 
sad because our children know so little of what the South was in the 
good times, say from thirty to forty years ago — nothing of the old 
patriarchal system — nothing of slavery as it was — nothing of those 
magnificent leaders and exemplars of the people, such as Clay and 
Calhoun and Berrien and Crawford and the Lamars and Styles. 

They and their illustrious companions moulded manners and senti- 
ment and chivalry and patriotism, and stood up above the masses like 
the higher heads overtop the rest in a field of golden grain. But the 
diffusion of knowledge is now bringing the masses up to the standard 
of education which these noblemen created. The field of grain is 
coming up to a uniform and unbroken level. The chances of men 
for fortune and for fame are more generally diffused and more nearly 



210 The Farm and The Fireside. 

equal than they have ever been, and the rise of a man from the 
humblest walks of life is no longer considered a miracle. 

The pendulum is always swinging. Generations play at see-saw — 
up to-day and down to-morrow — but still the pivot on which they play 
is rising higher and higher at the South. Then let us not complain 
about that which we cannot help, for whether we are up or down we 
have a goodly heritage. Let us all stand fast — stand fast by our land 
and our people and by the blessed memories of the past. Let patri- 
otism begin at home by the fireside and then stretch its wide arms 
and take the whole nation in its embrace. 



Teoe Farm and The Fireside. 211 



CHAPTER XLI. 



The Old School Days. 

It was about the close of a bright and happy day. We were all sitting 
in the broad piazza and Mrs. Arp had laid aside her spectacles and 
was talking about the old Hog mountain that she had been reading 
about in Joel Harris's pretty story, *'At Teague Poteets." "Why," 
said she, "that Hog mountain is in old Gwinnett, away up north 
towards Gainesville, and I went to school there when I was a child. 
Old Aunty Bird taught us, and she was a sweet old soul. I know she 
is in heaven if anybody is. I wonder if it is the same Hog mountain 
— but I don't remember any of the Poteets." 

Good, honest, clever Tom Gordon who lives a few miles above us 
passed along as we were talking, and Mrs. Arp's memories took a 
fresh start as she remarked: "He was a good boy, Tom was. I 
went to school with him to Mr. Spencer, and I know his speech right 
now," and she rose forward, and assuming an anxious, excited counte- 
nance, she said as she stretched forth her hand, " Is the gentleman 
done? Is he completely done?" Mrs. Arp is mighty good on a 
speech, and her memory is wonderful, and so to toll her along I said, 
"and Charley Alden, what was his speech?" and without a moment's 
hesitation she took a new position and made one of those short neck 
I)ows and cleared her throat, and repeated with slow and solemn voice, 

" ' On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly.' " 

Then she put her other little foot forward, and brightened up as 
she continued : 

" ' But Linden saw another sight,' " 

And when she got down to the thick of the fight it was thrilling to 
hear her and to see her heroic attitude as she screamed : 



212 The Farm and The Fireside. 

« < Wave, Munich — all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry.' " 

And she waved an imaginary flag all around her classic head. 

We all cheered and clapped our hands, for the girls had never seen 
their mother in that role before. 

"And poor Thad Lowe," said I, "what was his speech ?" 

"So from the region of the north," said she. 

'•And Rennely Butler," said I. 

"At midnight in his guarded tent," and she gave us a whole verse 
of Marco Bozzaris, She likes that and we begged her to go on, and 
she went through that fighting verse where the Greeks came down 
like an avalanche, and her martial patriotism was all aglow as she said : 

"Strike for the green graves of your sires, 
Strike for your alters and your fires, 
God and your native land." 

Goodness gracious, what a soldier she would have made. 
It was my turn now, and so I put in on Jim Alexander's speech at 
my school. 

•* Make way for liberty, he cried. 
Make way for liberty and died." 

Jim was always a cruising around for liberty, and the speech suited 
him mighty well. But Tom, his brother, had a liking for the law and 
spoke from Daniel Webster, "Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary 
case." And there was Gib Wright, the biggest boy in school, who car- 
ried his head on one side like he was fixing to be hung, and he came 
out on the floor with a flourish and made big demonstrations, fixing 
his No. 13 feet, and you would have thought he was going to speak 
something from Demosthenes or Ajax or Hercules or the rock of Gib- 
ralter, when suddenly he stretched forth his big long arm and said : 

"How doth the little busy bee 
Improve each shining hour." 

We never thought he would get to be a big lawyer and a judge, but 
he did. 

And General Woffbrd was there too, and his speech was the speech 
of an Indian chief to the pale faces, and most every sentence began 
with 'brothers," and he whipped a big sassy Spaniard by the name of 
Del Gardo for imposing on us little boys, and then went oft to fight 



The Faem and The Fhieside. 213 

the Mexicans for imposing on Uncle Sam, and ever since he has been 
fighting somebody or imposing on somebody, and I think he had rather 
do it than not. 

And there was Jim Dunlap who used to spread himself and swell 
aa he recited from Patrick Henry's great speech : *'They tell us, sir, 
that we are weak, but when shall we be stronger ? Will it be the next 
week or the next year?" and he just pawed around and shook the 
floor as he exclaimed, ''Give me liberty, or give me death!" Jim 
dident carry as much weight before him as he carries now, but he was 
a whale and had a voice like a bass drum with a bull frog in it. Jim was 
called on during the late war to choose betwixt liberty or death, and 
he sorter split the difference and took neither, but he pulled through 
all right. 

After this effort, which sorter exhausted me, Mrs. Arp recalled 
Melville Young's speech about "King Henry of Navarre," and Char- 
ley Norton's speech to the eagle, "Great bird of the wilderness, lonely 
and proud," and Charley Rowland's solemn dirge to Sir John Moore, 
"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note," and then I was called 
on for my own speech and I had to stand up and advance forward and 
make a bow and say : "My name is Norval —on the Grampian hills 
my father fed his flocks." 

I remember it took my teacher two weeks to keep me from saying 
^'my name is Norval on the Grampian hills," and he asked me what 
was my name off the Grampian hills ; and finally I got the idea that 
I must put on the brakes after I said Norval and then make a new 
start for the hills. 

Mrs. Arp then branched off* on the composition and recitations of 
the girls, and recited sweet little Mary Maltbie's piece on the maniac : 
"Stay jailer, stay and hear my woe," and Sallie Johnson's composition 
on "Hope." 

"Hope! If it was not for hope man would die. Hope is a good 
invention. If it was not for hope, woman would mighty nigh give 
up a ship." 

And that reminded me of Mack Montgomery's prize essay on 
money. 

* ' Money ! Money is a good invention. The world couldn't get along 
much without money. But folks oughtent to love money too good. They 
oughtent to hanker after other folkses money, for if they do its mighty 



214 The Farm and The Fireside. 

apt to make 'em steal and rob. One day there was a lonesome trav- 
eler going along a lonesome road in the woods all solitary and alone 
by myself, without nobody at all with him, when suddenly in the 
twinkling of an eyeball out sprang a robber and shotten him down, 
and it was all for money." 

Mrs. Arp's thoughts seemed away off somewhere as she tenderly 
repeated : 

"When I am dead no pageant train 
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier." 

"That was my dear brother's speech," said she *'and it all came 
true. He was killed at Chicamauga. The cruel bullet went in his 
brain and he fell with his face to the foe and there was no pagent 
train; no kindred; no sorrows wasted; no time for sorrow; no loving 
hand; no burial for a long time. Oh, it is so sad, even now, to 
think about the poor, dear boy. He was so good to us and we loved 
him." 

Our school-mates are few and far between now. Death has carried 
most of them away and those who are left are widely scattered. How 
the roads of life do fork — and some take one and some another. We 
are all like pickets skirmishing around, and one by one get picketed 
off ourselves by the common foe. I had liked to have got picked off 
myself a day or two ago. The wagon had come from town with a 
few comforts and one was a barrel of flour. Mrs. Arp and the chil- 
dren always come to the south porch when the wagon comes, for they 
want to see it unloaded and feel good for a little while, and so when 
the hind gate was taken off and Mrs. Arp had wondered how we 
would get out the flour, I thought I would show her what a man 
could do. I rolled the barrel to me as I stood on the ground and 
gently eased it down on my manly knees. My opinion now is that 
there is a keg of lead in that barrel, for my knees gave way and I 
was falling backwards, and to keep the barrel from mashing me into a 
pancake or something else, I gave it a heave forward and let her go, 
and it gave me a heave backward and let me go, and I fell on a pile 
of rocks that were laid around a cherry tree, and they were rough 
and ragged and sharp, and tore my left arm all to pieces and raked it 
to the bone. The blood streamed through my shirt sleeve and I was 
about to faint, for blood always make me faint, when Mrs. Arp 
screamed for camphor, and the girls run for it, and before I could 



The Farm and The Fireside. 215 

stop 'em they had campfire and turpentine fire poured all over my 
arm, and I went a dancing around like I was in a yaller jacket's nest. 
It liked to have killed me, shore enuf, but after while I rallied and 
went to bed. I havent used that arm nor a finger on that hand till 
now, and go about sad and droopy. But I have had a power of 
sympathy, and Mrs. Arp is good — mighty good. I'm most willing to 
tear up a leg or two by and by, for they are all so good. And now 
I'm in a fix — for I can't shave but one side of my face and company 
is coming tomorrow. 

Well, I used to could let down a barrel of flour — I used to could — 
but rolling years will change a man — anno domini will tell. I reckon 
by the time I get my neck broke I will begin to realize that Tm not 
the man I used to be, but as Cobe says, "if I could call back 20 
years I'd show 'em." The next time a barrel of flour comes to my 
house I will get two skids twenty-five feet long and let it roll out, see 
if I don't. But it's all right, and I've had a power of sympathy, and 
sympathy is a good thing. I would almost die for sympathy. I shall 
get well slowly — very slowly. But Mrs. Arp asked me this morning 
if I couldn't pick the raspberries for dinner with one hand — said she 
could swing a little basket round my neck. What a thoughtful, 
ingenious woman. 



216 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XLII. 



Old School Days. 

The older we grow the oftener do we reverse the telescope and look 
back. How distant seem the scenes of our youth. If I did not 
know better I would say it has been a hundred years since I was a 
little boy trudging along to the first school I ever attended. The old 
school days are a notable part of everyone's life. My wife and I fre- 
quently indulge in these memories, for we -went to school together, 
though I was six years her senior. We tell over to the children all 
the funny things that happened, and discuss the frailties and the vir- 
tues of our school mates and magnify the teachers, and she tells them 
as how I was a smart boy and stood head in the spelling class for a 
month at a time, and she remembers the speeches I spoke, and with a 
pretended regret she says: ** Children, your father was a very hand- 
some boy, with black, glossy hair, and he had plenty of it then. The 
girls used to cast sheep's eyes at him then, but I didn't, for I was too 
young to be a sweetheart then, but he had them. Yes, he was smart 
and good-looking too, and he knew it. Yes, he knew it. He had a 
fight once at school about his sweetheart. Her name was Penelope 
McAlpin and another boy called her Penny-lope, just to tease your 
pa, and he hit him right straight and they fought like wild cats for 
awhile. When he was a young man and I was in my teens, he was 
the dressiest youth in the town and wore the tightest boots. Oh, my! 
I had no idea he would ever notice me, and I don't know yet what 
made him do it." 

Well, you see, the like of that called for a response, and so I had 
to put in and tell what a beautiful, hazel-eyed Creole she was — what 
long raven hair that fell over her shoulders in waving tresses, and 
what beautiful hands and feet, and how fawn-like she locomoted about 
and about, and how shy and startled she was when I began to address 
her, and what juicy lips that seemed pouting for a lover, and then 



The Farm and The Fireside. 217 

lier teeth — ^her pearly teeth — that were almost as pretty as those she 
has now. I told them how hard it was to win her until she found 
out I was in earnest, and then how suddenly she surrendered with 
tumultuous affection, and I recited with tender pathos those beautiful 
lines of Coleridge: 

*'She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin shame, 
And like the murmur of a dream 
I heard her breathe my name. 

She half enclosed me in her arms. 
She pressed me with a meek embrace, 
And bending back her bead looked up 
And gazed upon my face." 

Just then Mrs. Arp stopped sewing and gazed at me sure enough, 
as she said: "Was there ever such a story-teller? Why, you know 
I didn't do any such thing. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." 

"I was just telling how Genevive did," said I, "and how Coleridge 
won his 'bright and beauteous bride.* She had hazel eyes, too." 

Young man, you had better not try to flirt with a pair of hazle 
eyes. It is a waste of time and dangerous. They are less susceptible 
than the blue, and when once deceived do not pine away in grief, but 
lally for revenge and take it out in scorn. If you tackle them you 
had better go in to win or leave the country. And while I think of 
it, I'll make another remark: When you woo and win and wed, you 
had better keep on wooing and winning afterwards or leave the coun- 
try. It takes a power of love to do them. 

We little chaps used to go to school to female teachers — to Yankee 
school marms, who were well educated and smart. But they never 
taught school very long, for our widowers married them about as fast 
as they came. You see, our high-strung blooded girls wouldn't marry 
widowers, for they could always get young men to their liking, but a 
well-to-do widower had a fancy for a settled woman, who was raised to 
economy, and would be so grateful for having bettered her condition 
in life. Of course they did not all marry widowers, but they married, 
and they made good wives and good mothers, and their descendants are 
all over the sunny land, and have proved a splendid cross from South- 
ern blood and Northern energy. 

The first teacher I ever went to was a Yankee woman, and she had 



218 The Farm and The Fireside. 

a dunce block set up in the middle of the room for the lazy scholars 
to sit on. The mischievous ones were made to stand on the table or 
in the corner with face to the wall. She never whipped us, and wa& 
a kind motherly woman. Jim Wardlaw "fit" her once and she laid: 
him on her lap and tried to spank him, but he bit her on the knee 
and she screamed "mercy" and let him go. 

The other day I chanced to be one of a party of assorted gentle- 
men and they took it by turns telling of their schoolboy frolics and 
adventures. One said, "while I was going to school to old Greer I 
picked a lot of wet mud off my shoe heels and made it into a ball and 
thought I would just toss it over and hit Ed. Omberg, who sat on the 
other side of the school room. Old Greer was on that side, too, and 
right between me and Ed. , but I thought I could flip it over his head 
while he was leaning over his desk setting copies, but somehow dident 
flip it hard enough and it came down on old Greer's head kerflop and 
flattened out like a pancake. I never saw a man more astonished in 
my life, and I was scared mighty nigh to death. I ducked down to 
my book and dident dare to look up. My ducking down was what 
caught me, for the other boys were looking up in wonder, and they 
would look at old Greer and then look at me, and a pointer dog couldn't 
have spotted a bird any better. *Come here,* said he. 'Come here; 
come here; come right along here;" and he met me half way and 
gave me about twenty-five that lasted and lingered for a whole week. 

' 'Jim Jones was a stuttering boy, and chock full of mischief. Early 
one morning he fastened the historic pin in old Greer's split-bottom 
chair, and when he came in and called the roll and then took a seat in 
his accustomed seat, he didn't stay there long, but rose up with great 
alacrity. His eyes flashed fire as he gazed around the room, and he 
caught Jim in the same way he caught me, and seizing a long, keen^ 
supple hickory said: 'Come up here, sir, you villainous scamp. 
I'll show you — come along, sir.' Jim approached trembling and slow. 
'Come along, I tell you, sir.' Jim stopped and stuttered with pitiful 
accents: * Ger-ger-ger-gwine to wh-wh-wh-whip me?' 'Come along,. 
I tell you, or I'll — ' 'Ger-ger-ger-gwine to wh-wh-whip me hard.' 
Old Greer started towards him, but Jim had lost confidence, and 
wheeling suddenly made tracks for the door with old Greer after him. 
Jim bounced over two benches to get there first, but Greer had to 
turn a corner around the benches, and in doing so tripped and fell 



The Farm and The Fireside. 219 

broadcast and rolled over besides, and we boys just cackled. He 
bounced up as mad as Julius Csesar, and said in a towering passion : 
'I'll whip every boy that laughs. Now laugh again, if you dare.' 
And we dident dare." 

Well, it is curious that most every devilish boy in every school is 
named Jim. The very name seems to make a boy devilish. They 
generally make notable men, and some of them climb very high. 
There is James Madison and James Monroe and Polk and Buchanan 
and Garfield. And Jimmy Blaine is cavorting around and thinks he 
ought to be president just because his name is Jim. If there is any 
other good reason I don't know it. And I went to school with Jim 
Wilson and Jim Alexander and Jim Wardlaw and Jim Linton and 
Jim Walker and they were a sight. There is another thing to be 
noted about school boys. They always call their teachers **old." 
They called Dr. Patterson "old Pat," and Professor McCoy *'old 
Mack," and Professor Waddell "old Pewt," and there was old Nahum 
and old Beeman, and old Fouch and old Isham. 

We were talking about old Isham, and one of our party said: **I 
went to school to him, and sometimes he would slip up on a boy as 
slyly as a cat upon a rat, and catch him making pictures on his slate. 
He would hover over him for a moment, and then pounce down upon 
him like a hawk upon a chicken, and catch him by the ears and shove 
his face down on the slate and wipe out the pictures with his nose. 
One day Jim Harris was up at the blackboard blundering along and 
making all sorts of mistakes, and old Isham got mad and, seizing him 
under the arms, lifted him up bodily and mopped the blackboard with 
him and rubbed out all his figures, and set him down again and sent 
him to his seat. 

I went to school to old George, said another, and there was a fire- 
place at one end of the long room, and when it was cold weather the 
small fry were allowed to sit up near the fire and the big boys had to 
do the best they could at the other end. Tom Jackson was a big, 
strapping, freckle-faced boy, who was everlastingly hungry. One 
morning he brought a big, long sweet potato to school and so he pre- 
tended to be very cold and said "Mr. George, mayn't I go up to the 
fire to warm?" "Go along, sir," said George. Tom took the shovel 
and pretended to be punching the fire, but he was slyly opening a 
hole in the ashes and suddenly dropped the potato in and covered it 



220 The Farm and The FmEsmE. 

up. Some of the little boys saw him and whispered : ' ' Gimme some, 
Tom; when its done gimme some." '^Hush," said Tom, **and I will." 
In about half an hour Tom got very cold again and asked to go up 
and warm. *'Go along, sir," said George, "you must be very cold 
this morning." Tom warmed awhile and took the shovel and pulled 
out the potato and put it in his pocket. ''Gimme some, Tom ; gimme 
some," was whispered all around as he marched backed to his seat. 
''Gimme some or I'll tell." 

The little boys began to snicker and point at Tom as he was peeling 
and blown' his "tater" behind his desk. "What are you boys making 
all that racket about?" said old George, as he approached them with 
his hickory. "We was laughing at Tom Jackson over yonder eatin' his 
'tater.' He roasted it here in the fire and promised to give us some 
if we wouldn't tell, but he didn't." "Aha," said old George, "come 
up here, Tom Jackson, you sly, deceitful rascal. That is what you 
were so cold about. What is that sticking out of your pocket?" "A 
tater, sir." "Give it here, sir. I'll have you to know this school 
house is no cook kitchen. You are so cold I think a little warming 
up will do you good, sir." And he gave him about a dozen over his 
shoulders and lower down, and then divided the tater among the little 
boys. 

These school boy tales would fill a book, and I wish that "Philemon 
Perch" would write another. 



The Faem and The Fireside. 221 



CHAPTER XLIII. 



Roasting Ears and The Midnight Dance. 

I once heard of a grumblin' old farmer who made a big crop of very- 
fine corn and on being congratulated about it, said : 

" Well, yes; my corn is all mighty fine, but I don't know how I'll 
get along without some nubbins to feed the steers on." 

It's a raining now every day, but it came a little too late, and we'll 
all have plenty of steer food this year. I reckon we will make some 
tolerable corn on the bottoms, and the late planting is coming out 
smartly. If misery loves company we can take comfort like the dar- 
key did that Mr. Stephens told about in his speech, for poor crops are 
a pretty "general thing" in this naborhood. 

But maybe it's all right — for we did make an abundance of wheat, 
and it aint too late to make a right smart cotton and git 15 cents a 
pound for it. A man ought to be reconciled to what he cannot help, that 
is unless he owes a little passel of money he can't pay and is reminded of 
it once a month on a postal card. That's bad, aint it ? Or unless he 
has got a lot of sickly no account children. I tell Mrs. Arp we ought 
to be mighty thankful for there's nary one of the ten that's cross-eyed 
or knock-need or pigeon-toed or box-ankled or sway-backed or hump- 
shouldered or lame or blind or idiotic and the grandchildren are an 
improvement upon the stock, and I don't believe any of 'em will ever 
git to the poor-house or carry a pistol or go to the legislature and have 
some feller offer 'em a hundred dollars for his vote. 

A sound, healthy body is a great blessing, and a fair set-off to most 
every kind of bad luck that can happen to a man. Mr. Beecher was 
right when he said the first rule to insure good health was to select 
good, healthy parents to be born from. My ruminations on this sub- 
ject have been quite luminous of late, for I've been powerful sick. 
The fact is, I like to have died the other night, and all of a sudden. 
You see I had overworked myself a fixing up a turnip patch, and got 
vret besides, and didn't stop for dinner, and was sorter hungry and bil- 



222 The Farm and The Fireside. 

ious to start on and we had roasten ears for supper and buttermilk and 
honey, and takin' it all together I took the green corn dance about 
midnight and the small of my back caved in and from then until day- 
break I never sot up, nor lay down, nor stood still a minute. Doubled 
up and twisted and jerked around with excruciatin' pains, I cavorted 
all over one side of the house, for we had some Atlanta company on 
the other, and my groan ings were worse than a foundered mule. It 
was just awful to behold and awfuller to experience. Spirits of tur- 
pentine, camphire, hot water, mustard plaster, mush poultice, pare- 
goric, Jamaica ginger were all used externally and internally, but no 
relief. I trotted around and paced and fox-trotted and hugged the 
bed-post and laid down and rolled over on the floor like a hundred 
dollar horse, and my wife, Mrs. Arp, she trotted around too, and dosed 
me with this thing and that thing and had the stove fired up and hol- 
lered for hot water forty times before she got it. 

"I told you not to work so hard in the hot sun," said she. "Oh, 
Lordy," said I. 

**I asked you to change your clothes as soon as you came to the 
house and you didn't do it." "Oh, my country," said I. 

"Don't wake up the company," she continued. "And you would 
eat them roasten ears for supper — did ever anybody hear of a man 
eating roasten ears for supper and ^hen wash 'em down with butter- 
milk and honey." "Oh, my poor back," said I. 

' ' Do you reckon it's your back — aint it further round in front ? " 
"Oh, no," said I, "it's everywhere, it's lumbago, it's siatiker, it^e 
Bright's disease, it's Etna and Vesuvious all mixed up. Oh, I'm so 
sick — can't nobody do nothin'." 

"Poor fellow, poor William, I'm so sorry for you, but you will wake 
up the company if you don't mind — I'm doing everything I can. 
You've taken enough things now to kill you. I declare I don't know 
what to do next, and all this comes from moving to the country five 
miles from a drug store or a doctor. I told you how it would be — 
plumbags and skyatiker and a bright disease, and the Lord knows 
what, and I would'nt be a bit surprised if you had the yellow fever 
to boot — caught it a trampin' around Memphis, and it's just broke out 
on you. Poor man, if he does die what will become of us ? But if 
he gets well he'll go and do the same thing over again. Don't grunt 
80 loud. I declare you make enough noise to wake up a grave-yard. 



The Farm and The FmEsmE. 223 

I never saw such a man. Here, try this mush poultice. I thought 
that water never would get hot. Does it burn you ?" 

*'0h, yes; it burns, but fire is nothing now, let it burn. Oh! I'm 
so sick. Bring me the paregoric, or the laudanum, or something, I 
can't stand it ten minutes longer," said I. 

* 'There aint a drop left. You've taken it all. There's nothing left 
but chloroform, and I'm so afraid of that, but maybe it will relieve 
you, William. My poor William, how I do hate to see you suffer so, 
but you will never do as I tell you. Do please don't wake up the 
company!" 

Well, I took the chloroform and went to sleep — to the happy land 
— all-blessed relief, and when I waked I was easier, and in due time 
was restored to my normal condition. In my gyrations my mind was 
exceedingly active. I ruminated over my past life, and could find a 
little comfort in what Lee Hunt wrote about some Arab who was 
admitted to heaven because he loved his fellow-men, that is, except 
some. Just so I have loved mine, that is, except some. I thougnt 
about money in comparison with health and freedom from 'pain, and I 
felt such an utter disgust for riches; it made me sick at the stomach, I 
would have given a house full of gold for two minutes' cessation of 
those internal hostilities. 

Well, I kept this numerous and interesting family in a very lively 
state for a few long hours, and it taught me a useful lesson. I'm 
going to take care of myself; I am going to do eveiy thing Mrs. Arp 
tells me, for she has got sense — she has. She takes care of herself — 
not a gray hair in her head, and is as bright as the full moon ; and 
when she gives an opinion it is an opinion. From that horrible night's 
experience I am more than ever satisfied she loves me as well as ever, 
and wouldn't swap me off for nobody. When I stand up before her 
and say "juror look upon the prisoner — prisoner look upon the 
juror," she always says ''content." And then she has such a consider- 
ate regard for her "company." 



224 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XLIV. 



Open House. 

In the good old patriarchal times most every family of wealth kept 
what was called 'open house' and all who came were welcome. There 
was no need to send word you were coming for food and shelter were 
always ready. The generous host met his guests at the gate and called 
for Dick or Jack or Caesar to come and take the horses and put them 
up and feed them. There is plenty of corn and fodder in the barn — 
plenty of big fat hams and leaf lard in the smoke house — plenty of 
chickens and ducks and turkeys in the back yard — plenty of preserves 
in the pantry — plenty of trained servants to do the work while the 
lady of the house entertained her guests. How proud were these 
family servants to show off before their visitors and make display of 
their accomplishments in the kitchen and the dining room and the 
chamber. They shared the family standing in the community and 
had but little sympathy for the ' 'poor white trash" of the neighbor- 
hood. 

Some of us try to keep open house yet but one can't do it like we 
used to. The servants are not trained and they come and go at their 
pleasure. Sometimes the larder gets very low and the purse looks 
like an elephant had trod on it. But still we do the best we can. 
We "welcome the coming and we speed the parting guest." — 

During the last summer we had a great deal of company at our 
house and some of them stayed a good long time, for most of them 
were from a lower latitude and imagined that the yellow fever or some 
dread pestilence was about to invade their low country homes. And 
so they were easily pursuaded to protract their visit. When they had 
all departed I was gla'd, for I knew that Mrs. Arp was tired — very 
tired. I was glad too because the supplies were well nigh exhausted 
and the cook had given notice of a change of base. Our recess had 
just begun when I received the following appalling epistle: 



The Farm and The Fireside. 225 

Savannah, Ga. 
3Iy Dear Cousin William : 

It is about time that we were paying you that loug-ppomised visit. 
[The way he came to be our cousin was his step-father's aunt married 
my wife's great uncle about 40 years ago.] It is awful hot weather 
down here. The thermometer is away up to an 100. It makes us 
long for the rest and shade of some quiet, cool retreat in the mountains 
of North Georgia, where we can get on the broad piazza of a country 
home and enjoy the fresh mountain air and the cool spring water. 
Our children are all at home now. Our eldest son has just returned 
from college, and our eldest daughter is now spending her vacation, 
and they need a good frolic in the country — and there are, as you 
know, just six others of all ages and sizes and they continually talk of 
your springs and your branches and the fish pond that you write about 
80 charmingly in your Sunday letters. So if you have room for us 
we will all be up in a few days. Our second boy has a favorite dog 
to whom he is much attached. If you have no objections we will 
bring the dog. He is well behaved and will give you no trouble. 
The third boy has a pair of fancy goats that are trained to work in 
harness, and I know your children will like to frolic with them. We 
will bring the goats. Our nurse will come with us. Now don't give 
yourselves any anxiety on our account for we are just coming to have 
a free and easy time and enjoy the air and the water. We will bring 
our fishing tackle along. Your Loving Cousin. 

It was with great hesitation that I read this letter to Mrs. Arp, but 
she was equal to the occasion, for her hospitality never surrenders. 
"Well, write to them to come along," she said with a sigh. "I expect 
their children are tired of that hot city, and would be happy to get 
up here and play in the branch. Their poor mother has had a time 
of it just like I have — a thousand children and no negroes. Born 
rich and had to live hard, and will die poor I reckon. But write to 
them to come along and enjoy the air and the water, for there is not 
much else here now." 

**But, my dear," said I, "there isent anything else, and I don't see 
how we can take them. The truth is I am plum out of money and I 
am ashamed to go to town and ask for any more credit. Two months 
ago when our company began to come we had 3 or 4 hundred chickens 
running around the lot, and before the company left I was buying 



226 The Faem and The Fireside. 

twenty a day. It is just awful, and we can't get another cook any- 
where." 

''"Well, it don't matter," said she, *'we can't refuse them — it would 
be bad manners. AVrite to them to come along, and we will do the 
best we can. You can pick up something, I know ; I never knew you 
to fail." 

So under conjugal pressure I indited the following reply : 

My dear Cousin : Your letter delighted us beyond expression. 
Our end of the line is all fixed up, and when you telegraph us that 
you are coming we will meet you at the depot. We have a double 
buggy and a farm wagon, and if they will not hold all and the bag- 
gage and livestock, the boys and the dog and the goats can walk out 
and peruse the country. It is only 5 miles, so come along and be 
happy and enjoy the air and the water. There is plenty of room now, 
for we shipped the last of 18 visitors yesterday. They have run us 
down to air and water, but there is still abundance of that and you 
are welcome to it. We don't care anything about your dog, but we 
have one here that I am afraid will eat his ears off in two minutes. 
Country dogs never did have much consideration for a town dog. The 
only trouble is about feeding your dog with palatable food, for we 
have no scraps left from our table now, and our dog has got to eating 
crawfish. This kind of food makes a dog hold on when he bites. 

I think you had better bring the goats, for we would like to have a 
barbacue while you are here, and we are just out of goats. You 
needent bring your fishing tackle as we have plenty, but fish are 
awful scarce in our creek since the mill pond was drawn off. Could- 
ent you bring some salt-water fish as a rarity to our children. Huckle- 
berries are ripe now and your children will enjoy picking them. 
Ticks and red bugs are ripe, too, and your children will enjoy picking 
them about bed time. Scratching is a healthy business in the country 
and is tlie poor man's medicine. Town folks can take Cuticura and 
Sarsaparilla and S S S and B B B but a poor man just has to scratch 
— that's all. 

I wouldent mention it to my wife, but it has occurred to me that as 
you are about to break up for a season you might just as w^ell bring 
your cow along, for ours are about played out. It would do your cow 
good to enjoy the air and the water. And this reminds me that my 
"wife scraped the bottom of the sugar barrel yesterday. It does take 



The Farm and The Fireside. 227 

a power of sweetniDg for these country berries. A hundred pounds 
or so from your store wouldent come amiss. I suppose your nurse 
wouldent mind sleeping in the potato shed. It is a good cool place to 
roost at night. We have no musketoes but snakes are alarmingly fre- 
quent in these parts. Carl killed a rattle snake in the garden yester- 
day but he had only six rattles and we think w^e can soon train your 
children to dodge them. So come along and enjoy the air and the 
water. It is well worth a visit up here to see the blue mountains 
and watch the young cyclones meander around. A cyclone came in 
sight of us last spring and unroofed nabor Munford's house and killed 
seven mules and three negro children and went on. It is a grand and 
inspiring sight to see a cyclone on an excursion. Our crab apples are 
ripe now. I read the other day a very sad account about three chil- 
dren dying of crab apple colic in one family. Our cook has given us 
notice that she will leave us next Sunday and my wife says she has 
tried all over the naborhood to secure another but failed. May be 
you had better bring up a cook with you but if you cant why then we 
will all try and get along on the air and the water. I can cook pretty 
well myself on an emergency but don't fancy it as a regular job. But 
the greatest trouble now is that we have nothing to cook. But come 
along and enjoy the air and the water. Your cousin 

• William. 
Well he dident come. The next time I saw him he said he was 
just a joking, and I told him I was too. 



228 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XLV. 



The Old Tavern. 

Some time ago my business called me to an old venerable town that 
is still a score of miles from a railroad, and consequently has not made 
much progress in its business or its architecture. Forty years had 
passed since I visited the place, and there was but little change. The 
same old hotel was there, one of those big old-fashioned barns that 
used to prevail in almost every town, and had a swinging sign-board 
that creaked and swayed with the wind and said, "Entertainment for 
Man and Beast," They used to have a plantation bell swung up on a 
frame close by, and a rope attached to ring the guests to fried chicken 
and ham and eggs and beat biscuit and bacon and greens and sausage 
and lye hominy and cracklin' bread. The judge and the bar rode the 
circuit then — not in railroads nor one at a time, but all together in 
buggies and gigs and sulkies. It was quite a cavalcade, and attracted 
wonder and awe and attention like a travelling circus. The judge's 
room was always the biggest and best, and every night the lawyers 
would gather there and talk and tell anecdotes and exchange their 
genial wit and humor, and it was a rare treat to a young man to be 
admitted to a corner and listen to them. It was a feast to me I know, 
and I still treasure the memory of those delightful evenings at Gaines- 
ville and Jefferson and Monroe and Watkinsville and Clarkesville, 
when Howell Cobb and Tom Cobb and Hillyer and Dougherty and 
Overby and Hutchins and Peeples and Jackson and Hull and Under- 
wood were the luminaries of the western circuit. What a galaxy was 
there — all notable men in their day, and all honorable. There was 
no trickery in their practice, for they scorned it, and they loved to 
meet each other on these semi-annual ridings, and each one was 
expected so come laden with a new batch of anecdotes wherewith to 
cheer the night. Book agents were unknown ; newspapers were neither 
numerous nor newsy, and hence it was a great comfort to the people 
to catch the sparks of genius as they scintilated from the lawyers and 



The Farm and The Fireside. 229 

the politicians on the stump and in the forum. Stump politics were 
a big thing with the people. The two great parties of whigs and 
democrats were pretty equally divided. Sometimes one was in power 
and sometimes the other, and the contest went on from year to year 
and never ceased to create excitement. It is not so now at the South, 
for there is practically but one party and it takes two to get up a fight. 

But this venerable town had memories and its moss covered hotel 
with its steep stairs and narrow passages carried me back to those 
good old primitive times, and I felt like painting a head board and 
nailing it up somewhere with the inscription "Sacred to the memory 
of" 

A friend said that it was a pity the old house would not catch fire 
and burn up. But no. I wouldent have it so. Let it stand if it 
will stand. It will never rot for the timbers are all heart and hewed 
and honest. I felt like taking ofi* my hat to it and saying 

Good friend, let's spare that barn, 

Touch not its mossy roof — 
Its walls heard many a yarn 

In its historic youth. 

Under the weight of years 

Its back has crooked grown; 
Look at the creaking doors, 

See how the stairs are worn. 

Oft in each hall and room, 

Lye-soap and sand were thrown, 
And many a home-made broom 

And many a shuck have gone. 

Full many a chick was killed. 

And died without a tear, 
And many a guest was filled 

With comfort and good cheer. 

No, no; let's keep the inn, 

Though it has lost the sign — 
Keep it for what it's been — 

Keep it for auld lang syne. 

A good old matron is keeping it now, and her table abounds in 
generous old-fashioned fare. 

The other day Judge Milner and Col. McCamy and I were lament- 
ing that Judge Underwood, the last of that splendid galaxy of lawyers 



230 The Farm and The Fireside. 

liad passed over the river, and we exchanged many delightful recol- 
lections of him, for he was a genial gentleman, and his presence 
always brought sunshine. He was a notable man — notable as a judge, 
as a lawyer, as congressman, and as a wit. We recall the famous Cal- 
houn convention, when Judge Wright and General Young and 
General Wofford and Lewis Tumlin and some others were candidates 
for the nomination to congress, and no man had enough votes to elect, 
and all were stubborn, and the balloting went on all day and part of 
the night, and the delegates were getting mad and furious and were 
about to break up in a row, and Judge Underwood, who was not a 
candidate, volunteered to make a conciliatory, harmonizing speech, 
and he did it in such a delightful affectionate manner, and praised up 
all the candidates in such eloquent tributes that when he closed one 
man got up and waved his hat and moved for three cheers to Judge 
Underwood, and they were given with wild enthusiasm, and right on 
top of it another delegate moved that he be nominated for congress 
by acclamation, and he was. Never was there such a surprise to 
everybody except to the judge, though he always denied that it was 
a preconcerted scheme. 

**0h, rare Judge Underwood! Colonel McCamy remarked that the 
judge did not have a very high r.egard for that picture of justice 
which makes her blindfolded and holding the scales equally balanced 
in her hand. So far as crime w^as concerned he claimed the right to 
see, and he did see the criminal with open, unfriendly eyes, and he 
sought to convict him and gave the solicitor general so much aid and 
co-operation that the lawyers used to say the judge and the solicitor 
were in partnership. His charge to the jury in a criminal case was 
always fair and strictly legal, for he was a great lawyer ; but woe be 
unto the lawyer who asked for more than he was entitled to. On one 
occasion a big rough, malicious, young man was indicted for strik- 
ing a smaller youth with a brickbat and inflicting a terrible wound. 
The small boy had been imposed upon by him, and seizing a stick he 
struck him and ran. Bill Glenn was defending the young man who 
used the brick, and after the judge had given a very fair charge to the 
jury, he said: "Now, gentlemen, if I have omitted anything that you 
think should be given in the charge, I will be glad to be reminded of 
it." Bill Glenn rose forward and said, "I believe your honor omitted 
to charge the jury that a man may strike another in self-defense." 



The Farm and The FiREsroE. 231 

"'Yes, gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, with great sarcasm, 
'^es, there is such a provision in the law, and if you believe from 
the evidence that this great big, double-jointed, long-armed, big-fisted 
young gentleman was running after that puny, pale-faced boy with 
that brickbat, and because he couldent catch him threw it at him with 
all his force, and struck him on the back of the head and knocked 
him senseless, and that he did all this in self-defense, then you can 
find the defendant not guilty. Is there anything else. Brother 
Glenn?" 

* 'Nothing, I believe, sir. Your honor has covered the ground,'' 
said Glenn, biting his lips. 

"I was always afraid," said McCamy, *'to ask the judge to charge 
anything more than he chose to — especially in a criminal case." 



232 The Farx and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XLVL 



The Old-Time Darkeys. 

A merchant or a lawyer or any outsider who never farmed any has 
got an idea that farming is a mighty simple, and easy, and innocent 
sort of business. They think there is nothing to do but plow and hoe 
and gather the crop, and there is no worry or complication about it, 
except you can't get a rain every time you want it, and the crop is 
short in consequence. I had pretty much that sort of a notion myself, 
but I know better now. Pve been farming for five years, and I like 
it better and better; I like the freedom of it, its latitude and longi- 
tude and its variety; but there is a power of little worries, and not a 
few big ones, that a man has to encounter and provide for that these 
outsiders never dreamed of. AVhen a man is running hired labor it 
takes about half his time to watch 'em and keep 'em from wasting 
things, and losing things, and doing things wrong. I went down in 
the field yesterday and stumbled on the monkey-wrench in the grass by 
the turn row, and it had been there for a month, and I had hunted for 
it all over the premises, and nobody could tell anything about it; but 
now the darkey "members takin' it down dar to screw up de taps on 
de cultivator." Not long ago I found the hatchet in the edge of the 
bushes where one of the boys had cut poles to lay off by. I can pick 
up scooters and dull plows all about the farm, in the corners of the 
panels and on the stumps where they put 'em when they changed 'em. 
My log chain is missing now, and the little crow-bar and one of the 
hammers, for sometimes I have to leave home for a few days, and 
although these niggers and my yearlin' boys do their level best to sur- 
prise me with doin' a power of work while I was gone, they don't notice 
little things; they lose at the bung-hole while stopping up the spigot, 
or vice varcy, as the saying is. They bore the auger bit against a nail, 
or dull the saw in the same way, and let the old cow get into the orchard, 
or the hogs into the tater patch. I've got good workin' boys and right 
industrious darkeys, but it takes a man with a head on and his eyes 




How THE Cyclone Done Htm. 



The Farm and The FiREsmE. 23S 

^ell open to keep up with 'em and watch out for little things — little 
damages that aggravate a man and keep him in a fret, that is if he 
is but human and can't help fretting when things go wrong. A nabor 
borrowed my brace and bit, and the bit came back with one corner off; 
another one borrowed my cross-cut saw, and it came back awful dull, 
and will cost me a new file. They don't like it if I don't lend them 
my mower to cut their clover, though they never have cleaned up the 
rocks in their field. 

A darkey will work a mule sometimes for two hours with the hames 
out of the collar and never see it, and he thinks it mighty hard if you 
won't lend him a mule to ride to meetin' of a Sunday. But I won't 
do that. They beg me out of a heap of things but they shan't ride 
my stock of Sundays, for I hate to do it myself, and when a darkey 
gets on a mule and out of sight he is like a beggar on horseback, he'll 
ride him and run him as long as he can stand up. I like the darkeys, 
I do, but I haven't got much hope of 'em ever being anything but 
the same old careless, contented, thoughtless creatures they always 
were. I've got one who took a notion he would lay up half of his 
wages in spite of himself, and he told me to put it in the contract that 
I wasn't to pay him but five dollars a month and keep the other half 
till the end of the year. And now he tries to beg me out of the 
other five at the end of every month, but I won't pay it, and he goes 
off satisfied. Nabor Freeman came home the other day and found 
his nigger tenants right smart behind with their crops, and they had 
all been off to a three days meeting and an excursion besides, and so 
he got mad and hauled up Bob, and says he: "Bob, what in the 
dickens are you all goin' to so much meetin' for? What is the matter, 
is the devil after you with a sharp stick, and a bug on the end of it?" 

*' Well now. Boss," says Bob, ''I'll tell you how it is. We niggers 
have been seein' for a long time da,t you white folks done got dis world, 
and so we is gwine to meetin' and fixin' up to get de next one as soon 
as we git dar; dat's all;" and Bob stretched his mouth and showed his 
pearly teeth, and laughed loud at his own wit. 

I love to hear these old time good natured darkeys talk. John 
Thomas was in the ragged edge of a cyclone the other day, and said I, 
*'John what did you darkeys do when the cyclone struck you?" "Good 
gracious, boss, I tell you — dem niggers just frow themselves down 
on de groun', sir, and holler *'0h, Lordy — good Lord hab mercy on a 



234 The Farm and The Fireside. 

poor nigger. Nebber be a bad nigger any more, oh Lordy, good 
Lordy" — and de old elycoon pay no tention at all, but jes' lif *em up 
and twis 'em all roun and roun and toss 'em ober de fence into de red 
mud hole, and Gim, my soul I wish you could hab seen Gim, for as 
he was gwine ober de fence he ptruck a postis that was stickin up, 
and he gethered it wid both arms and held on and hollerd wus than 
eber, *'0h, Lordy — oh my good Lord. Bless de Lord, hab mercy on 
a poor nigger;" and about that time the old slycoon twis he tail aroun 
and lif Gim's feet way up over he's head and his holt broke and he 
bounced off on the grouu and den took another bounce off on the 
grouu and den took anoder bounce into the mud hold, and dar de con- 
sarn lef him. 

Atter de slycoon gone clean away I run up to Gim, and says I, 
*'Gim, is you dead or no." Gim lyin dar in de mud hole wid nuffin 
but his head out. Gim neber spoke nary word, and his eyes was 
swelled like a dead steer, and says I agin, *'I say Gim, is you done 
gone clean dead," for you see I thought if Gim dead no use in my 
wading in de mud after him, and Gim he grunt and wall one eye at me 
and whisper *'wha is he." *'Whar's who," said L *'De debbil," said 
he. * 'Done gone," said I — "gon clean away." *' Git up from dar — 
git up, I say." Gim gib a groan and say, " I can't, I'm done dead." 
**Git up I tell you," said I, but Gim neber move. 

Bymeby I frow up my hands and look down de big road and say, 
**my good Lord Almighty, ef dat old slycoon aint a comin right hack here" 
Neber see a nigger come to life like Gim. He bounced outen dat 
mud hole and start off up de road a runnin' and hollerin' for a quarter 
of a mile. White folks come along and stop him and look all ober 
him and nebber find a scratch. When he got back we was all cuttin' 
away de timbers from offen de mules, and it was a half an hour before 
we could git Gim to strike ary lick. Tell you what boss, we was all 
mighty bad skeered, but I neber see a nigger as onready for judgment 
as dat same nigger, Gim. When de old debil do git him he raise a 
rumpus down in dem settlements, shore." 

''Dident the cyclone take of the roof of your cabin, John?" 

*'0f course he did, boss. He take de roof off along ebery where he 
go. Look like ebery house he come to he dip down and say take your 
hat off, don't you see me comin', and aint you got no manners, and 
zip he strike 'em and take it off hisself He take de roof offen de col- 



The Farm and The Fireside. 235 

ored school and offen de white school all de same. He no respekter 
of pussons, bless God. Tell you, boss, what I tink about dis old sly- 
coon, I tink he nuffin but de old debil on a scursion, yah, yah, 
yah," and John cackled at his own ideas. 

Bob came over last Sunday to see us. He used to be a tenant o4 
mine, and we liked him because he had a big mouth and was always 
happy. He was a good worker and not afraid of the weather, but he 
was careless and left his tools most anywhere and barked my young 
apple trees when plowing the orchard. I loaned him a new shovel 
to work the road and he lost it, but I couldn't stay mad with Bob 
long at a time. We never supposed that he could get mad enough to 
have a fight with anybody, but he was not on good terms with a neigh- 
boring darkey, and so one Saturday when they both came from town 
and had taken a drink or two of red eye they undertook to settle the 
old feud and Bob killed him. It was a willing fight and a bad case 
all round and Bob got two years and would have got ten but for his 
good character, all his previous life. He has served out his term, and 
honestly feels that he has paid the debt, if he ever owed it. 

"How did they treat you, Bob ?" 

** Well, sir, dey treat me purty well, purty well; I can't complain. 
No, sir, I can't complain. For de fust six mont I didn't like it very 
well, for, you see, me and de gyards hadn't got 'quainted. Bimeby, 
when we all got 'quainted, dey took a liken to me and tell de 
capen to take off my shackles, and he. take 'em off. De best way 
is to make friens wid de gyard fust, jes like when a man wants to 
make a frien of another man he muches up de chillun fust, and dat 
gits de old man and de old 'oman, too. Den de next bes way is ter 
pervide hj de laws as nigh as you kin. De capen tell us dat de fust 
day — sez he, boys, you must pervide by de laws. Den he tell us de 
laws. Dere wasent but three or four of 'em, and I lissen wid both 
years wide open, and I say to myself. Bob Smith, you mus pervide by 
de laws, and shore enuf I did, and atter we git 'quainted like, we gits 
sorter intimat and I never had any trouble. Dey like me so well dey 
shorten my term three months and three days, and when I cum away 
de capen say * Bob, I am sorry to see you go — can't you finish out 
your visit?' And I say ' capen, I likes you mighty well, but dis is de 
longest visit I eber made anybody in my life, and if we ever meet 
again, you will hare to come to my house.' 



236 The Farm axd The Fireside. 

"Did they work you very hard, Bob?" 

**No, sir, not overly hard — got to do a full day's work, though^ 
and dey knows prezactly what dat is. Can't fool 'em, and can't 
play sick unless you is sick, and hardly den. I neber lose but four 
days in all my time. Heap times I thought I was sick, and if I 
had been home I would have laid up shore, but dey said I wasent, 
and dey looked like dey knowed and I didn't know and so I went 
to work, and shore enuf I was all right agin by dinner. Colonel Tow- 
ers he come along every week or so and look roun, and he ax me if I 
had any complaint, and I say *no, sir, sepen I would like some poun 
cake,' and he say he forgot to bring it. I tell you what. Boss, de 
very best thing for a man to do when he gets dar is not to go dar 
— not to do nuffin to go dar for, and den when he gets dar de nex 
bes thing is to pervide by de laws. Dere is some folks in dar jes as 
mean an no count as folks outen dar. Dere is mean niggers and mean 
white folks everywhere you go. Some folks cum in de worl mean and 
dey stays mean all de time; but I say dis, dat if a man, when he 
goes dar, will haive hissef and pervide by de laws he kin git along 
and hav a tolable easy time. 

*'De last iix mont I stay dar I dident have to work any. Dey 
made me a trusty and I have charge of de dogs — de track dogs — 
and when de niggers get away de boss he holler for Bob mighty quick. 
We had two track dogs ; one of 'em was a big, long-eared houn dog — 
could track mighty fast — de oder was a small dog, sorter like a fice, 
but he mighty shore on de scent of a run-away. One mornin' about 
daybreak de boss holler, * Git up, Bob, git up quick, bring de dogs, 
two niggers got away.' So I brings de dogs and we put 'em on de 
track, and away dey went cross an old field and into de woods and 
was barkiu' every step. I throws de saddles on de mules in a hurry, 
and I got on one and de boss on toder and away we went after de 
dogs. De run-aways dident have more'n half an hour start and de 
track was powerful warm. And so de dogs run and de niggers run 
and we run, and bimeby after we gone about four miles we hear de 
old houn change his tune like he treed sumfin, and de boss say, *Bob, 
old Sheriff have got 'em.' And shore enuf when we got dar de run- 
aways was up in a white oak tree a settin on a limb, and de old houn 
dog was a settin on de groun wid his head up a lookin' at 'em and a 
barkin', and every time he open his mouf he say, *Too-ooo of 'em, 



The Farm and The Fireside. 237 

too-ooo of 'em, too-ooo of 'em.' And de little dog was a settin' back 
on his tail and he say, *dats a fak, dats a fak, dats a fak.' Yah, yah, 
yah. Boss make dem niggers come down from dar quick and march 
'em back to de stockade and give 'em forty lashes apiece, cos you see 
dey dident pervide by de laws." 

Bob asked me one day if a man's soul could be split in two. "What 
do you mean," said I, *' What kind of a fool question is that?" Bob 
spread his big mouth and said: "My boss was tryin' to devil me one 
day 'bout gwine to meetin* so much and he say: 'Bob, don't you 
know dat a nigger ain't got no soul ? ' And den I ax him if a white 
man got a soul, and he say, 'of corse he had.' And den I say, 
* 'Sposin' a colored man is a mellater and is jes half and half, how's 
dat? " He study awhile and say he 'low a mellater have jes half a 
soul. And den I say, 'Look a here. Boss, what kind of a thing is 
dat, dat half of a soul ? Can you split a soul in two?' He turn o3 
and laugh and say, 'Damfino,'and I tell him I's gwine to ax you 
about it." And Bob showed his pearly teeth and laughed tumultu- 
ously. 

When the prohibition election came off in our county the negroes 
were generally on the side of whiskey, more whiskey and better 
whiskey, but Bob came up as a temperance darkey and made a speech 
to the darkeys of his church. A whiskey man in the crowd inter- 
rupted him and said, "Shoasyou are borud. Bob Smith, effen you 
vote whiskey outen Cartersville de grass will grow waist high in dem 
streets." '"Sposin it do?" said Bob, "'Sposin' it do? Den we'll 
raise more hay and less hell, and dats what's de matter wid Hannah. 
Yah! Yah!" 



238 The Farm and The FiREsmE. 



CHAPTER XLVII. 



Owls, Snakes and Whang-Doodles. 

Most every night about half-past eight, 

A screech owl mourneth at the outside gate. 

The Bweet little katydids sing all the day long. Earlier in the sea- 
son they were happy only at night, but now the woods are full of their 
music by day. It is not a song from the mouth, but they rub the bars 
of their wings together apd puiF out their bodies for sounding boards, 
and if a man could sing as loud in proportion to size, I suppose he 
could be heard across the Atlantic ocean, and his voice would make 
an earthquake and shake down the stars, and so that wouldn't do at 
all, and he wasn't made that way. But these little screech owls are a 
nuisance, and are enough to make a nervous woman have fits or hys- 
terics or something. I shot one on the gate post one night while he 
was complaining about something we had done to him, but another 
one came back and set up his mournful wails. I wonder what makes 
'em stay away off in the woods all day and come screeching around 
the house at night like they wanted to haunt us. There is some excuse 
for superstition about owls, for they love darkness rather than light, 
and the ancient philosophers said they were the sentinels and forerun- 
ners of evil spirits, and the scriptures classed 'em with demons and all 
sorts of trouble and misery. The Prophet Isaiah cursed Babylon and 
said the owl should dwell there, and satyrs should dance there. .. And 
then they look so wise out of their big eyes and twist their heads 
'round and 'round watching you, and you can't scare 'em nor tame 'em. 
Well, they were made for something; but I don't know what it is, and 
I have frequently thought that when the flood covered the earth 
it was a mighty good time for Father Noah to have left out of the ark 
all such disagreeable varmints as owls, and snakes, and whang- doodles 
that mourn for their first born. 

Gen. Black told me th^^t if I wanted to get rid of screech owls to 
put the shovel in the fire when one of 'em was a screechin* and he 



The Farm and The Fireside. 239 

^o uld leave forthwith. The general said the fire contracted with the 
oxide in the iron and deluminated an odoriferous that was disagree- 
able to the delicate oil factories of the bird. Jesso ! Well, I tried it, 
and he dident leave worth a cent. 

That screech owl is sitting on the gate-post singing a funeral dirge. 
It's a bird of bad omen, and I would shoot him, but my wife says an 
old African witch told her grandmother there would be a death in the 
family if you killed one of 'em, shore. It always seemed to me that 
in the fitness of things they belonged to a graveyard or a haunted , 
house or a dismal swamp or a country meetin* house that the hogs 
slept under and nobody preached in. I don't like 'em, especially at 
this juncture of home concerns, for my wife saw the last new moon 
through a bushy tree-top right over her left shoulder, which she dident 
mean to do by no means. Things don't move on serenely, and the 
old horse-shoe over the kitchen door has lost its influence. I havent 
seen a pin on the floor that dident pint away from me, and the other 
day a rabbit run across the road right before me, and soon after I 
come to a snake track, which they say is mighty bad if you don't rub 
it out with your face towards the snake, but I couldn't tell whether 
the snake that made the track was going north or coming back, and 
so had to rub out by guess, and now while I'm a-writin' Mrs. Arp has 
got a hummin' in her right ear, and she says it sounds like an Eolean 
harp, or a musketer away off*, and that's another funeral sign — and 
last night a black pet chicken came in the famil}' room while we 
was at supper, and went to roost on top of a picture that hung over 
the clock on the mantel-piece, and nobody knowd it until we had put 
the light out and went to bed, when it chuckled a little and Mrs. Arp 
chuckled a good deal until I struck a light, and now she says Mr. Poe 
had a raven that done the same thing and he died soon after. 

The weather is sad. It mists and weeps and stays cloudy all the 
time, and that makes everybody gloomy. There hasent been a dry 
day in three weeks that we can plow. The grass grows as fast as the 
cotton and the seed will scatter all over the open bolls and the cotton- 
buyers will dock us a cent for trash. Things are not working right 
for us farmers, but we can't help it. The flies take shelter in the 
liouse and so do the bugs and the grand-daddies and the bats. 

Here, William, quick, I say — here's a grand-daddy on me ; don't 



240 The Farm and The Fireside. 

you Bee ; why don't you take him off. Lord a mercy, did I ever see 
a man as slow as your are. Do please take the thing off." 

"Well, you see it takes a long time to find the thing, and when you 
do he's a crawlin' on the floor a gettin away as fast as he can, and she 
declares that's another one and I have to hunt all over her for five 
minutes. 

* 'There's one of those contemptible bats in here again. Get the 
broom, William, I wouldn't have it to get on me for a thousand dol- 
lars. Mercy on me ! I do believe the house will be run over with 
vermin. Don't break the bureau glass. Why don't you stand on the 
table? Why, you don't come in a yard of him! It does seem to me 
if I was a man I could knock a bat down." 

"He has gone out," said I, meekly. 

* 'How do you know — did you see him? Bet anything its on my 
bed somewhere. Move the pillows and bolster. I'll dream about the 
thing all night." 

It looks like I'll perish to death for want of some good warm vittels. 
I'm juicin' away. You see when Mrs. Arp was a cookin' the other day 
in the basement an innocent chicken-snake crawled out from behind 
the meal-chest. Such a scream was never heard since the Injuns 
scalped my great uncle. I run for my life and was pickin* her up in 
my arms when she rallied and said, *'kill the snake first;" and I killed 
it. He was a lovely snake— all speckled with dark green and white 
and had just swallowed a mouse. But, alas! the kitchen is purty 
much deserted and all regular cooking abandoned. When they cook 
now I have to take a gun and stand guard. I march forrerds and 
backwards like a sentinel. I've had to move the meal tub and the 
stove wood, and everything else fourteen times, for she declares its got 
a mate, and the mate is there somewhere. ''Maybe its a bachelor 
snake," said I. 

"Oh, of course, you don't believe there's another snake in the wide 
Avorld — and I've found out you killed one last week under the hearth 
and you told the children not to let me know anything about it; didn't 
you?" 

"It was a very little one," said I, "and I dident want you troubled 
about it." 

"Yes, I suppose it was a little one, but snakes are snakes, and where 
there's little ones there's big ones. I do believe the whole plantation 



The Farm and The Fireside. 241 

is haunted with 'em, and everywhere else, for I can't take up a news" 
paper without seeing where somebody was bitten." 

"Men and boys," says I; *'I havent seen any mention of a woman 
being bitten nowhere — fact is, I don't believe they bite females. You 
know that old mother Eve was mighty friendly with 'em." 

*'Yes, that's always the way — you turn everything into ridicule. 
Well, you may hire a cook; I'm not going to risk my life nor the 
children's in this old haunted kitchen." 

But I think she is getting over it, and with a little encouragement 
things will resume their natural condition in a few days. The greatest 
trouble I have in this connection is Freeman — my nabor Freeman. 
I reckon he don't mean any harm by it; but just as soon as my wife, 
Mrs. Arp, told him about the snake, he up and told her about killia 
one over in his field as long as a fence rail, and how it had its den in 
a rock pile, and would run out after him and the niggers, and then 
retreat; and they were all fightin' and runnin' and runnin' and fightin 
for two hours, until they wore him out; and he brung down the 
rattles of a rattlesnake and rattled 'em around, and told about finding 
a spring lizzard in the water pail, and had like to have swallered him 
alive in the gourd. And now my wife, Mrs. Arp, won't drink out of 
anything but a glass goblet; and when she walks out in the front 
yard she has one eye for flowers and the other for snakes and lizzards, 
and shakes her clothes tremendious when she comes back. I wish 
that one would bite Freeman. 



242 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 



The Autumn Leaves. 

The earliest fires of the fall 

Have brightened up the room, 
The cat and dog and children all 

Have hid old winter come. 

The wind is running at the nose, 

The clouds are in a shiver; 
By day we want more warmer clothes, 

At night we want more kiver. 

When a farmer has laid by his crop and the seasons have beerr 
kind and the corn and cotton are maturing, and the sweet potato 
vines have covered the ground, what an innocent luxury it is to set in 
the piazza in the shade of evening with one's feet on the banisters, and 
contemplate the beauty and bounty of nature and the hopeful pros- 
pect of another year's support. It looks like that even^n Ishmaelite 
might then feel calm and serene, and if he is still ungrateful for his 
abundant blessings he is worse than a heathen, and ought to be run 
out of a Christian's country. Every year brings toil and trouble and 
apprehension, but there always comes along rest and peace and the 
ripe fruits of one's labors. 

Persimmons and 'possums are getting ripe. The May-pops have 
dropped from the vines. Chestnuts and chinkapins are opening, and 
walnuts are covering the ground. Crawfish and frogs have gone into 
winter quarters — snakes and lizzards have bid us adieu. All nature 
is preparing for a winter's sleep — sleep for the trees, and grass and 
flowers. I like winter; no£ six long months of snow and ice and 
howling winds, but three months interspersed with sunny days and 
Indian summers. The Sunny South is the place for me, the region of 
mild and temperate climate, of lofty mountains and beautiful valleys, 
and fast-flowing streams. The region where the simoon nor the 
hurricane ever comes, and the streams do not become stagnant, nor the 



The Farm and The Fireside. 243 

mosquito to sing his little song. I don't want to be snow-bound in 
winter, nor to fly from a fiery hurricane in summer; and it's curious 
to me that our Northern brethren don't bid farewell, a long farewell, 
to such a country and settle down in this pleasant land. 

" The cricket chirrups on the hearth 
The crackling fagot flies." 

The air is cool and lively. The family have peartined up, and 
everything is lovely around the farmer's comfortable fire. How invig- 
orating is the first chilling breeze of coming winter. The hungry 
horses nicker for their corn ; the cattle follow you around ; the pesky 
pigs squeal at your feet, and this dependence of the brutes upon us 
for their daily food makes a man feel his consequence as he struts 
among them like a little king. The love of dominion is very natural. 
It provokes a kindliness of heart, and if a man hasn't got anything 
else to lord it over it's some comfort to love and holler at his dog. I've 
seen the day when I strutted around among my darkies like a patri- 
arch. I felt like I was running au unlimited monarchy on a limited 
scale. And Mrs. Arp felt that way too. Sometimes in my dreams I 
still hear the music of her familiar call, "Becky, why don't you come 
along with that coal-hod ? '* " I'se a comin', mam." " Eosanna, what 
in the world are you doing; havent you found that needle yet?" 
"Fse most found it, mam." Poor thing; patient and proud, she 
hunts her own needles now, and the coal-hod falls to me. 

But we still live, thank the good Lord, and are worrying through 
the checkered life as gracefully as possible. What's the use of brood- 
ing over trouble when you can't help it? Sometimes, when a rainy 
day comes and all out-doors is wet and sloppy, and the dogs track mud 
in the piazza, and the children have to be penned up in the house, 
and everything is gloomy, we get sad and look on the dark side, and 
long for things we havent got. When the little chaps play hide and 
seek till they get tired, and shove the chairs around for cars and 
engines, and look at all the pictures, and cut up all the newspapers, 
and turn summersets on their little bed, and then get restless and 
whine around for freedom, Mrs. Arp opens her school and stands 'em 
up by the buro to say their lessons. 

''Now, Carl, let me see if you can say your psalm. Put your 
hands down and hold up your head." 



244 The Farm and The Fireside. 

* * The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He — he — he — " 

"Let that fly alone, and put your hands down. He maketh me to 
lie down — " 

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He, he." 

"Quit pulling at that curtain. He leadeth me — " 

"He leadeth me. La, mamma, yonder comes a covered wagon. I 
speck it's got apples." 

"Carl, stand away from that window. If I take a switch to you 
Pll make you look after apple wagons. He leadeth me." 
"He leadeth me — in the houee of the Lord forever." 

"Bless my soul, if he hasn't skipped over to the very end. Where 
are you going no\N ?" 

"Mamma, I want a drink of water — mamma, please give me and 
Jessie an apple." 

"No, sir, you shan't smell of an apple. Every time I try to teach 
you something you want water, or an apple, or go to catching flies. 
I w^ish I had that switch that's up on the clock." 

"I'll get it for you," said I. 

"K"o you needent, either. Just go on with your writing. I wish 
you would let me manage the children. All the learning they ever 
get I have to ding dong it into 'em. When I want, the switch I can 
get it. Here, Jessie, come and say your verses." 

And Jessie goes through with "Let dogs delight" like a daisy. 

Oh, she's smart as a steel trap — just like her mother. I wish you 
could see Mrs. Arp's smile when some other woman comes along and 
norates the smart sayings of her juvenile. 

" Aint it strange," says she to me, "how blinded most mothers are 
about their children. Mrs. Trotter thinks her Julia a world's wonder, 
but Jessie says things every day a heap smarter, and I never thought 
anything about it." 

" Jesso," says I; "children are shore to be smart when they have a 
smart mother. Their meanness all comes from the old man." 

But the rainy days don't last forever. Sunshine follows cloud and 
storm and darkness. In the journey of life the mountains loom up 
before us, and they look high and steep and rugged, but somehow 
they always disappear just before we get to them, and then we can 
look back and feel ashamed that we borrowed so much trouble and had 
so much anxiety for nothing. What a great pile of miserable fears 



The Farm and The Fireside. 245 

-we build up every day. It's good for a man to ruminate over it and 
Tesolve to have more faith in providence, and I am ruminating now, 
for I went to town to-day to attend a little court that had my tenant's 
cotton money all tangled up by the lawyers, and I never expected to 
get my share, but I did and I feel happy. Mrs. Arp had told the chil- 
dren she would like to go and do some shopping for them but she 
knew that I was so poor and they would have to do without. 

So when I came home and found her stitching away with a sad 
-expression on her countenance, I pulled out the 22 dollars of cotton 
money, and assuming a pathetic attitude exclaimed : 

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
My charmer, turn to see 
Thine own, thy long-lost William here, 
Kestored to Heaven and thee." 

And I laid the shining silver in her lap. In about two minutes 
everything was calm and serene, and we had music that night and 
Mrs. Arp played on the piano and sang some of the songs of her girl- 
hood. It's most astounding what a little money can do. 



246 The Farm and The FiREtitDE. 



CHAPTER XLIX. 



Uncle Tom Barker. 

Uncle Tom Barker was much of a man. He had been wild and 
reckless, and feared not God nor regarded man, but one day at a 
camp-meeting, while Bishop Gaston was shaking up the sinners and 
scorching them over the infernal pit, Tom got alarmed, and before the 
meeting was over he professed religion and became a zealous, outspokea 
convert, and declared his intention of going forth into the world and 
preaching the gospel. He was terribly in earnest, for he said he had 
lost a power of time and must make it up. Tom was a rough talker, 
but he was a good one, and knew right smart of *' scripter," and a good 
many of the old-fashioned hymns by heart. The conference thought 
he was a pretty good fellow to send out into the border country among 
the settlers, and so Tom straddled his old flea-bitten gray, and in due 
time was circuit riding in North Mississippi. 

In course of time Tom acquired notoriety, and from his strong- 
language and stronger gestures, and his muscular eloquence, they 
called him old "Sledge Hammer," and after awhile, "Old Sledge," for 
short. Away down in one corner of his territory there was a black- 
smith shop and a wagon shop and a whisky shop and a post-office at 
Bill Jones's crossroads; and Bill kept all of them, and was known far 
and wide as "Devil Bill Jones," so as to distinguish him from 'Squire 
Bill the magistrate. Devil Bill had sworn that no preacher should 
ever toot a horn or sing a hymn in the settlement, and if any of the 
cussed hypocrites ever dared to stop at the crossroads, he'd make him 
dance a hornpipe and sing a hymn, and whip him besides. And Bill 
Jones meant just what he said, for he had a mortal hate for the men 
of God. It was reasonably supposed that Bill could and would do 
what he said, for his trade at the anvil had made him strong, and 
everybody knew that he had as much brute courage as was necessary. 
And so Uncle Tom was advised to take roundance and never tackle 
the crossroads. He accepted this for a time, and left the people to 




I See Tom Barker Risin' of the Hill. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 247 

the bad influence of Devil Bill; but it seemed to him he was not doing 
the Lord's will, and whenever he thought of the women and children 
living in darkness and growing up in infidelity, he would groan. 

One night he prayed over it with great earnestness, and vowed to 
do the Lord's will if the Lord would give him light, and it seemed to 
him as he rose from his knees that there was no longer any doubt — he 
must go. Uncle Tom never dallied about anything when his mind 
was made up. He went right at it like killing snakes ; and so next 
morning as a "nabor" passed on his way to Bill's shop, Uncle Tom 
said: 

"My friend, will you please carry a message to Bill Jones for me? 
Do you tell him that if the Lord is willin', I will be at the crossroads 
to preach next Saturday at eleven o'clock, and I am shore the Lord 
is willin'. Tell him to please 'norate' it in the settlement about, 
and ax the women and children to come. Tell Bill Jones I will stay 
at his house, God willin', and I'm shore he's willin' and I'll preach 
Sunday, too, if things git along harmonious." 

When Bill Jones got the message he was amazed, astounded, and 
his indignation knew no bounds. He raved and cursed at the ' 'onsult," 
as he called it — the *'onsulting message of 'Old Sledge'" — and he 
swore that he would hunt him up, and whip him, for he knowed that 
he wouldn't dare to come to the crossroads. 

But the "nabors" whispered it around that "Old Sledge" would 
come, for he was never known to make an appointment and break it; 
and there was an old horse-thief who used to run with Murrel's gang, 
who said he used to know Tom Barker when he was a sinner and had 
seen him fight, and he was much of a man. 

So it spread like wild-fire that "Old Sledge" was coming, and Devil 
Bill was "gwine" to whip him and make him dance and sing a "hime," 
and treat to a gallon of peach brandy besides. 

Devil Bill had his enemies, of course, for he was a hard man, and 
one way or another had gobbled up all the surplus of the "nabor- 
hood" and had given nothing in exchange but whiskey, and these 
enemies had long hoped for somebody to come and turn him down. 
They, too, circulated the astounding news, and, without committing 
themselves to either party, said that h — 11 would break loose on Satur- 
day at the crossroads, and that "Old Sledge" or the devil would have 
to go under. 



248 The Farm and The Fireside. 

On Friday, the settlers began to drop into the crossroads under pre- 
tense of business, but really to get the bottom facts of the rumors that 
were afloat. 

Devil Bill knew full well what they came for, and he talked and 
cursed more furiously than usual, and swore that anybody who would 
come expecting to see *'01d Sledge" tomorrow was an infernal fool, for 
he wasn't a-coming. He laid bare his strong arms and shook his long 
hair and said he wished the lying, deceiving hypocrite would come for 
it had been nigh on to fourteen years since he had made a preacher 
dance. 

Saturday morning by nine o'clock the settlers began to gather. 
They came on foot and on horseback, and in carts — men, women and 
children, and before eleven o'clock there were more people at the 
crossroads than had ever been there before. Bill Jones was mad at 
their credulity, but he had an eye to business, and kept behind his 
counter and sold more whiskey in an hour than he had sold in a 
month. As the appointed hour drew near the settlers began to look 
down the long, straight road that **01d Sledge" would come, if he 
came at all, and every man whose head came in sight just over the 
rise of the distant hill was closely scrutinized. 

More than once they said, "Yonder he comes — that's him, shore." 
But no, it wasn't him. 

Some half a dozen had old bull's-eye silver watches, and they com- 
pared time, and just at 10:55 o'clock the old horse thief exclaimed : 

**I see Tom Barker a risin' of the hill. I hain't seed him for eleven 
years, but, gintlemen, that ar' him, or I'm a liar." 

And it was him. 

As he got nearer and nearer, a voice seemed to be coming with him, 
and some said, "He's talkin' to himself," another said. He's a talkin* 
to God Almighty," and another said, "I'll be durned if he ain't a 
praying," but very soon it was decided that he was "singin' of a 
hirae." 

Bill Jones was soon advised of all this, and, coming up to the front, 
said: "Darned if he ain't singing before I axed him, but I'll make 
him sing another tune till he is tired. I'll pay him for his onsulting 
message. I'm not a-gwine to kill him boys. I'll leave life in his rot- 
ton old carcass, but that's all. If any of you'ens want to hear 'Old 
Sledge' preach, you'll have to go ten miles from the road to do it." 



The Farm and The Fireside. 249 

Slowly and solemnly the preacher came. As he drew near he nar- 
rowed down his tune and looked kindly upon the crowd. He was 
a massive man in frame, and had a heavy suit of bark brown hair; 
but his face was clean shaved, and showed a nose and lips and chin 
of firmness and great determination. 

**Look at him, boys, and mind your eye," said the horse thief. 

''Where will I find my friend, Bill Jones?" inquired *'01d Sledge." 

All round they pointed him to the man. 

Riding up close he said: **My friend and brother, the good Lord 
has sent me to you, and I ask your hospitality for myself and ray 
beast," and he slowly dismounted and faced his foe as though expect- 
ing a kind reply. 

The crisis had come and Bill Jones met it. 

*'You infernal old hypocrite; you cussed old shaved-faced scoun- 
drel ; didn't you know that I had swored an oath that I would make 
you sing and dance, and whip you besides if you ever dared to pizen 
these crossroads with your shoe-tracks? Now sing, d — n you, sing 
and dance as you sing," and he emphasized his command with a ring- 
ing slap with his open hand upon the parson's face. 

"Old Sledge" recoiled with pain and surprise. 

Recovering in a moment, he said : 

"Well, Brother Jones, I did not expect so warm a welcome, but if 
this be your crossroads manners, I suppose I must sing;" and as Devil 
Bill gave him another slap on his other jaw he began with : 
"My soul, be on thy guard." 

And with his long arm suddenly and swiftly gave Devil Bill an 
open hander that nearly knocked him ofi" his feet, while the parson 
continued to sing in a splendid tenor voice: 
"Ten thousand foes arise." 

Never was a lion more aroused to frenzy than was Bill J ones. 

With his powerful arm he made at "Old Sledge" as if to annihilate him 

with one blow, and many horrid oaths, but the parson fended off the 

stroke as easily as a practised boxer, and with his left hand dealt Bill 

a settler on his peepers as he continued to sing : 

"Oh, watch, and fight, and pray, 
The battle ne'er give o'er." 

But Jones was plucky to desperation, and the settlers were watch- 
ing with bated breath. The crisis was at hand, and he squared him- 



250 The Farm and The Fireside. 

self, and his clenched fists flew thick and fast upon the parson's frame,. 

and for awhile disturbed his equilibrium and his song. But he rallied 

quickly and began the offensive, as he sang : 

♦' Ne'er think the victory won, 
Nor lay thine armor down — " 

He backed his adversary squarely to the wall of his shop, and 
seized him by the throat, and mauled him as he sang: 
♦' Fight on, my soul, till death — " 

Well, the long and the short of it was, that "Old Sledge" whipped 
him and humbled him to the ground, and then lifted him up and 
helped to restore him, and begged a thousand pardons. 

When Devil Bill had retired to his house and was being cared for 
by his wife, ''Old Sledge" mounted a box in front of the grocery and 
preached righteousness and temperance, and judgment to come, to 
that people. 

He closed his solemn discourse with a brief history of his own sin- 
ful life before his conversion and his humble work for the Lord ever 
since, and he besought his hearers to stop and think — *' Stop, poor 
sinner, stop and think," he cried in alarming tones. 

There were a few men and many women in that crowd whose eyes, 
long unused to the melting mood, dropped tears of repentance at the 
preacher's kind and tender exhortation. Bill Jones's wife, poor 
woman, had crept humbly into the outskirts of the crowd, for she had 
long treasured the memories of her childhood, when she, too, had 
gone with her good mother to hear preaching. In secret she had pined 
and lamented her husband's hatred for religion and for preachers. 
After she had washed the blood from his swollen face and dressed his 
wounds she asked him if she might go down and hear the preacher. 
For a minute he was silent and seemed to be dumb with amazement. 
He had never been whipped before and had suddenly lost confidence 
in himself and his infidelity. 

*'Go 'long, Sally," he answered, "if he can talk like he can fight 
and sing, maybe the Lord did send him. It's all mighty strange to 
me," and he groaned in anguish. His animosity seemed to have 
changed into an anxious, wondering curiosity, and after Sally had 
gone, he left his bed and drew near to the window where he could hear. 

" Old Sledge" made an earnest, soul-reaching prayer, and his plead- 
ing with the Lord for Bill Jones's salvation and that of his wife and 



The Farm and The Fireside. 251 

children reached the window where Bill was sitting, and he heard it. 
His wife returned in tears and took a seat beside him, and sobbed her 
heart's distress, but said nothing. Bill bore it for awhile in thought- 
ful silence, and then putting his bruised and trembling hand in hers, 
said: ''Sally, if the Lord sent 'Old Sledge' here, and maybe he 
did, I reckon you had better look after his horse." And sure enough 
* ' Old Sledge " stayed there that night and held family prayer, and 
the next day he preached from the piazza to a great multitude, and 
sang his favorite hymn : 

" Am I a soldier of the Cross ?" 

And when he got to the third verse his untutored but musical voice 
seemed to be lifted a little higher as he sang: 

"Sure I must fight if I would reign, 
Increase my courage, Lord." 

Devil Bill was converted and became a changed man. He joined 
the church, and closed his grocery and helped to build a meeting 
house, and it was always said and believed that *' Old Sledge" mauled 
the grace into his unbelieving soul, and it never would have got in any 
other way. 



252 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER L. 



Bill Arp on Josh Billings. 

Josh Billings is dead, and the world will miss him. He was a suc- 
cess in his way, and it was not a bad way. He did no harm. He 
did much good, for he gave a passing pleasure and gave it frequently, 
and left the odor of good precepts that lingered with us. He was 
^sop and Ben Franklin, condensed and abridged. His quaint-phonetic 
spelling spiced his maxims and proverbs, and made them attractive. 
It is curious how we are attracted by the wise, pithy sayings of an 
unlettered man. It is the contrast between his mind and his culture. 
We like contrasts and we like metaphors and striking comparisons. 
The more they are according to nature and everyday life, the better 
they please the masses. The cultured scholar will try to impress us 
by saying ''facilis decensus averni" but Billings brings the same idea 
nearer home when he says, ''when a man starts down hill, it looks like 
everything is greased for the occasion." We can almost see the fellow 
eliding down. It is an old thought that has been dressed up fine for 
centuries, and suddenly appears in every day clothes. Wise men tell 
us that the people do not think for themselves, but follow their leaders 
in politics and religion. That is true, and it is tame and old. But 
when I asked the original Bill Arp how he was going to vote he said 
he couldn't tell me until he saw Colonel Johnson, and Colonel John- 
eon wouldn't know until he talked to Judge Underwood, and Judge 
Underwood wouldn't know until he heard from Aleck Stephens. ''But 
who tells Aleck Stephens how to vote?" "I'll be dogged if I know." 
Well, that was the same old truth, but it was undressed, and therefore 
more forcible. The philosophic theory has come down to a homely 
fact. 

Some years ago I met Mr. Shaw in New York, at Carleton's book 
store. I did not know that he was Josh Billings. In fact I had for- 
gotten Billings' real name, and I thought this man was a Methodist 



The Farm and The Fireside. 253- 

preacher. He looked like one, a very solemn one. His long hair 
was parted in the middle and silvered with gray. His face was heavily 
bearded, his eyes well set and his mouth drooped at the corners. We 
sat facing each other for a few moments, when suddenly he leaned for- 
ward and said: ''Friend Arp, say something." I knew then that 
Mr. Carleton had surprised me and that this was Billings, for he had 
told me that his friend Billings was going to call. We soon got 
friendly and familliar, and suddenly he inquired, **how is my friend 
Big John?" "Dead," said I. ''And how is that faithful steer?" 
said he. "Dead," I replied. With a mock sorrow he wiped his eyes 
and remarked, "hence these tears." (Steers.) 

While we were talking, a lad of the house came back and said there 
was a man in a balloon and we could see him from the front. We all 
went forward and we watched the daring aeronaut soar away until he 
was out of sight and we took seats near the door. Billings heaved a 
sigh and said, "I feel very bad, my friends. That sight distresses 
me." We asked him why, and he said, "It carries me back to the 
scenes of my early youth, and reminds me of a sad event." We 
waited a moment for him to recover from his depression, and he said : 
"I was an indolent, trifling boy. I wouldn't work and I wouldn't 
study at school. I had a longing to get away from home and go 
West. Most everybody was going West, and so one morning my father 
said to me: "Henry, I reckon you had better go. You are not 
doing any good here." And so he gave me ten dollars and a whole 
lot of advice, and my mother fixed me up a little bundle of clothes 
and I started. That money lasted me until I got away out to Illinois, 
for I worked a little along the way to pay for lodging and vittels, but 
at last it was all gone, and my shoes were worn out, and when I got 
to a little village one afternoon I was homesick and friendless, and I 
didn't know what to do next. I noticed that the people were all going 
one way, and they told me they were going out to the suburbs to see a 
man go up in a balloon. So I followed the crowd and when I got 
there I saw a little dirty Italian sitting down on an old dingy balloon, 
and there was a fellow going around with a hat in his hand trying to 
make up ten dollars. The little Italian said he would go up for that 
money. But the fellow couldn't make it. He counted the money 
and had only six dollars and a half, and so he gave it up, and was 
about to give the money back when I thought I saw my opportunity. 



254 The Farm and The Fireside. 

I was sorry for the Italian and sorry for myself, and so I whispered to 
him and asked him if he would give me all over ten dollars that I 
could make up and he said 'yes, all over eight dollars.' Well, I had 
the gift of speech pretty lively, and I went round and round among 
the folks and told them how this poor, little, sunburnt son of Italy came 
three thousand miles from his home to minister to their pleasure and 
put his life in peril, and it was a shame that we couldn't make him up 
the pitiful sum of ten dollars. I soon got the crowd in good humor, and 
in about five minutes I had made up eighteen dollars. I felt proud 
and happy, and said: *Xow, my friend, fire up,' and I helped him to 
fire up. The old balloon was patched and leaky, and I thought it 
would burst before we got ready, for we piled the gas in heavy. 
Before long the little chap was in the basket, and we cut the ropes and 
away she went. It was a calm, still day in June — not a breath of air 
to drift the balloon from a perpendicular. Up, up, she went, grow- 
ing smaller and smaller, until finally she was but a tiny speck in the 
zenith. We nearly broke our necks looking at it, and sure enough, 
in a few minutes more she was gone. Not a spy-glass could find it. 
We watched all the evening for the little fellow to come back in sight, 
but he never came. The shades of night come over us but no Italian. 
The crowd dispersed one by one until all were gone but me, for I was 
his friend and treasurer, you know. Next morning he still was miss- 
ing and all that day we made inquiries from the surrounding country, 
but no Italian and no balloon, and from that day to this good hour he 
has never been heard from. I have felt a heavy weight of responsi- 
bility about him, for I fear I put in too much gas. My hope is that 
he went dead straight to heaven. I have his money in my bank, and 
it is drawing interest." 

And Josh wiped away another pretended tear of grief. 

He was a companionable man and talked without a strain. When 
he visited our little city of Rome our people gave him glad welcome, 
for he had been long ministering to their pleasure and in all his great 
and curious utterances he had never written a line that showed preju- 
dice or malignity to our people or our section. 

Peace be to his ashes and honor to his memory. 



The Farm and The Fuieside. 255 



CHAPTER LI. 



The Code Duello. 

They are the funniest things — these duels. They are both funny 
and fantastic. They beat a circus — that is to say the newspaper 
pictures of them beat the circus pictures, and it is reasonable to sup- 
pose that the antics of the performers are more ludicrous than the 
clown and the monkeys and the trick horse combined. I would like 
to be up in a tree and see a duel — no I wouldent either. It would be 
safer to be in front of one of the performers. Sometimes I think 
that these little affairs of honor are just gotten up to amuse the pub- 
lic, and they are a success in that way. They beat Sullivan and 
Kilrain in the wind up, and the only objection is we don't know about 
it until the show is all over. Vie don't have a chance to take sides 
and bet on anybody, and if we did we wouldent win or lose, for it is 
always a draw — nobody hurt, wonderful pluck, amazing heroism, 
magnanimous conduct, noble bearing, amicable adjustment, but 
nobody hurt; that's what's the matter. When it leaks out that a 
great show is coming, the people want it to come. If a hanging is 
advertised, it is an outrage if somebody don't hang. If a duel has to 
be fought to preserve honor, the public want some blood. Honor or 
death, honor or crippled, honor or hit somewhere. But this side wiping 
around and fixing up the thing on a wood-pile, or, *' I'll retreat if 
you'll retreat," or, *' I dident mean what you thought I meant," don't 
satisfy the public. 

Some years ago one of our notable men called another notable man 
a thief and he got challenged for it, and we thought there was blood 
on the moon, but mutual friends interposed and he retracted by saying 
he dident mean that he was a personal thief but an official thief, and 
that was satisfactory and the affair was honorably adjusted. 

When an affair of honor is settled now-a-days we can't find out who 
whipped the fight — who was right and who was wrong. The whole 
matter is left so mystified that the stakeholders won't pay the money. 



256 The Farm and The Fireside. 

In fact it is sometimes hard to tell from the newspapers who were 

doing the fighting, the principals or the seconds, or an amateur 

performer who recklessly rushed in where angels feared to tread. 

" The combat thickens — on ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave." 

Awful scene — terrific beyond expression. It reminds me of a little 
Frenchman who was prancing around the hotel in St. Louis and had 
a little impudent terrier dog following him about. The dog gave just 
cause of ofiense to a big whiskered Kentuckian who was talking to a 
friend, and with a sudden swing of his boot he sent the animal a rod 
or two out in the street. Quick as lightning the Frenchman danced 
up to Kentuck, and with violent gesticulations exclaimed: ** Vat for 
you keek mon leetle tog? Vot for me say? Here is mine card. I 
demand de sateesfacsheon of de shenteel mon." The Kentuckian 
seized him gently by the nap of the neck and lifted him bodily to the 
door and gave him a kick outward, and then walked back and 
resumed his conversation. 

The Frenchman spied an acquaintance who was passing, and rush- 
ing up to him poured out this history: *' Vot you call des American 
honeur. He keek mon leetel tog and I geeve heem mine card and 
demond de sateesfacshun of de genteelhomme, de sateesfacshun of de 
sword or de peestole — dear to de Frenchman's heart. You tinks he 
geeve him to me. No sare — no time, but mon Dieu he leef me up by 
de collare — he speen me roun and roun like I was von tom top and 
keek me more hardf r than de leetle tog. Vot you calls dot, American 
honeur? Bah! I go pack to La belle France and hoonts up some 
American and fights him. I will have de satisfacshun — begor." 

If retractions are to be made they should be very explicit. It is 
related of John Randolph that he expressed his contempt of a man by 
saying of him that he wasn't fit to carry — ofiid to a bear. A retraxit 
was demanded or a fight, and he promptly responded that he would 
now say that the gentleman was fit to carry — ofi^al to a bear. This 
proved satisfactory and goes to show how small a retraxit will satisfy 
wounded honor. But it seems to be a matter of great nicety as to the 
time when the retraxit shall be made. Among all gentlemen it is 
admitted that an apology should be made just as soon as the gentle- 
man has discovered he has done another gentleman an injury or has, 
without just cause, wounded his feelings; but these mysterious affairs 



The Farm and The Fireside. 257 

of honor are very slow about such things, and the retraxits are not 
allowed to be made until a challenge has passed and the seconds chosen 
and the pistols loaded and everything got in readiness for a fight. 
Then the retraxit is in order and the honorable adjustment. The 
whole thing is methodical, to say the least of it. It is like a bill in 
equity that has nine parts, and there is the accusation and the rejoin- 
der and the surrejoinder and other mysteries. The fact is, considering 
the funny and fantastic and harmless character of most of the modern 
duels, I think that justice's court would be the best tribunal wherein 
to settle such matters. The first case I ever had, was a case in justice's 
court, where I was employed to defend a man who was sued for thirty 
dollars worth of slander because he had accused his nabor of stealing 
his hog and changing the mark from an underbit in the right ear to a 
swallow fork in the left. After the joinder and the rejoinder and the 
surrejoinder the jury retired to a log and eventually brought in this 
verdict: "We, the jury, find for the plaintifi* two dollars and fifty 
cents unless the defendant will take back what he said." I have always 
thought that was a just verdict, and if ever any fool sends me a chal- 
lenge I shall propose to leave the matter to a jury in a justice court. 
They always give a man a chance without his having to practice with 
pistols on a tree. It is a strange thing how a man can hit the bull's 
eye on a tree every pop but can't hit a man one time in five, and yet 
be perfectly cool and calm and serene aU the time. 

The books say that duelling originated in the superstitious ages 
when it was believed that the fates or the ^ods were on the side of 
truth and justice, and always avenged the man who had been wronged. 
The philosophers declared that there was a mysterious connection 
between honor and courage and between courage and the nervous 
system, and that when a man was in the wrong his courage wavered, 
and his nerves became unsteady, and so he couldn't fight to advantage 
and was easily overcome by his adversary. There may be something 
in this, but not a great deal, for we do know that the professional 
duelist is generally in the wrong and generally whips the fight. In 
fact, the wrong man has most generally been killed in all the fatal 
duels of modern times. During the past century duelling has had 
its chief support from the army and the navy where chivalry seems to 
have centered. They talk about chivalry as though they belonged to 
some knightly order like unto the olden times when Don Quixote 



258 The Farm and The Fireside. 

mounted his flea-bitten gray and sallied forth and charged a windmill 
with a lance about twenty feet long. The word chivalry comes from 
* cheval," a horse, and so if a man was not mounted there was no 
chance to be chivalrous. A seat in a buggy won't do at all. It won't 
churn up heroism like the canter of a horse. That was called the 
** fantastic age of famished honor," for honor was said to be always 
hungry for a fight with somebody, and the knights started out period 
ically to provoke difiiculties. Happy for us that this age has passed- 
away and the knights are unhorsed, but unhappily for us, like the 
comet, a portion of its tail still lingers in the land, and ever and anon 
some valiant knight shows up and strikes his breast and exclaims: 
"Mine honor, sir, mine honor!" Eight then I want to rush to his 
relief and give him a sharpened pole and mount him on some "Rosi- 
nante' and escort him to one of these modern windmills that are 
built to pump water and tell him to charge it until his honor is satis- 
fied. Most of these chivalric gentlemen have a very vague, indefinite 
idea of what honor is and where it is located. Hudibras throws some 
light upon the seat of honor when he tells of a man who was "kicked 
in the place where honor is lodged," and he says : 

" A kick right there hurts honor more 
Than deeper wounds when kicked before. 

This locates honor in the back ground where we will leave it. 

Honor is like the chamelion. It takes any color that suits its sur- 
roundings. Aaron Burr challenged Hamilton in order to preserve his 
honor, and yet he was ^ traitor, an enemy of Washington, a libertine 
and boasted of his amours and his intrigues. If a man is going to 
fight for his honor he should be sure that he has not tarnished it by his 
own dishonorable conduct. If a man is a thief or a swindler or an 
extortioner or a libertine or a black mailer, he has no right to chal- 
lenge a man for calling him a liar. Honor is a very broad quality 
and does not split up in parts. It makes up the complete gentleman 
in all his conduct, though a man may not have told a lie, yet he may 
have no honor to defend, for he had lost it all in other vices. When 
a man can look his fellow-men in the face and say, "Whom have I 
defrauded or whom have I wronged or from whom have I taken a 
bribe?" then lot him fijrht for his honor if he wants to. 

But the average man who has made his money by ways that are 
dark and tricks that are vain or wlio has used deceit, dishonesty, hypoc- 



The Farm and The Fireside. 259 

risy or oppression in gaining his ends, has no right to send or accept a 
challenge to mortal combat. He must stand fair and square before 
the people if he expects their sympathy. If he fights of course 
it is out of respect to public opinion, for no two men would fight if 
they were on an island by themselves. And this proves the duelist a 
coward, the worst kind of a coward, for he has more regard for pub- 
lic opinion than he has for himself or his family or his friends or his 
Maker. He knows that a duel proves nothing and settles nothing 
and yet he deliberately lets public opinion outweigh his wife and his 
children and worse than all he puts his soul in reach of the devil. 
From every morg,l standpoint he is a fool and a coward and could 
be convicted of lunacy in any court, and ought to be. Lord, help us 
all — when will this foolishness stop? The law is against it. Public 
opinion is against it. Common sense is against it and so is humanity 
and morality. Public opinion says that every such case lowers our 
moral standard at home and belittles us abroad. Public opinion 
•doesn't care a snap for che duel or the duelist. Duels prove noth- 
ing. They establish no man's character for truth or integrity. 
They give him no better credit in bank, no more friends in busi- 
ness. Among decent peaceable people he is looked upon as a partial 
outlaw, and they shrink from his society for fear of offending him. 
His code of morals and his peculiar sense of honor is a silent insult 
to them as though he had said: *' I move in a higher plane 
than you common folks. I am a man of honor— a gentleman." 
He has been engaged in a dishonorable business and he knows it, 
for he has had to skulk around in the night and hide and dodge 
like a thief. He does not dare to fight on the genial, loving soil 
of his own State, for that would disfranchise him and so he seeks 
some other. In fact, the whole thing would be as funny as a farce if 
nobody was concerned but the principals and their seconds. But 
there are parents and wives and children and friends and hence the 
<leep concern. Then let us have more peace and less foolishness. Let 
a man take part in no show that he has to keep secret from his wife 
or his children. Let him undertake no peril that his preacher couldn't 
approve with a parting prayer and benediction. In fact, I have 
always wondered why the preacher was not taken along as well as the 
surgeon, for where the devil is, the man of God ought to have an equal 
chance to capture an immortal soul. 



260 The Fakm and The FmEsiDE. 



CHAPTER LII. 



"Billy in the Low Grounds." 

Write, my child — write something to The Constitution. I don't 
care what. I am too nervous. I can't think my own thoughts. It 
is perfectly horrible — awful, but I reckon it's all right. I reckon so. 
I wish there was not a tooth in my head. When they come, they 
come with pain and peril, and keep the poor child miserable, and 
when they go they go with a torture that no philosophy can endure. 
Oh, my poor jaw — just look how it is swollen. I am a sight. A 
pitiful prospect. I look like a bloated bond-holder on one side of my 
face and no bonds to comfort me. I wonder what would comfort a 
man in my fix. I have suffered more mortal agony from my teeth 
than from everything else put together. Samson couldn't pull them, 
hardly, for they are all riveted to the jawbone. I have been living 
in dread for a month, for I knew that eyetooth was fixing up trouble ; 
and so yesterday morning it sprung a leak at the breakfast table, and 
I jumped out of my chair. The shell caved in, the nerve was 
touched, and in my agony I gave one groan and retired like I was a 
funeral. Five miles from town and no doctor. Don't put down 
what I suffered all that day, and the night following, for you can't. 
Mush poultices and camphor and paregoric and bromide and chloro- 
form and still the procession moved on, and the jumping, throbbing 
agony sent no flag of truce — no cessation of hostilities. AVTiat do I 
care for anything ? Don't tell me about Hendricks being in Atlanta. 
I don't care where he is. Yes, I do. He is a good man, but I've got 
no time to think about him now. Please give me some more of that 
camphor. I've burned all the skin off my mouth now but it is a 
counter-irritant and sorter scatters the pain around. If I had some 
morphine I would take it for I want rest. I am tired. Oh, for one 
short hour of rest. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 261 

Write something, my daughter — write to The Constitution and 
explain. Tell them I am *' Billy in the low grounds." I am suffer- 
ing and want sympathy. Write a note to the doctor, and tell him to 
come, come quick. I can't go through another night. Oh, my coun- 
try. Let me try that hot iron again. I'll cook this old fat jaw out- 
side and inside. I wish I had no tongue, for I can't keep it from 
touching the plagued tooth. Just look at my gums, they have swelled 
up so you can hardly see the old tooth. Give me a knife and a hand 
glass. I'll see if I can't let some blood out of these strutting gums. 
I am so nervous I can't hardly hold the knife, but here she goes. Oh, 
my country, now give me the camphor and I'll let it burn in a new 
place. 

Just write a line to The Constitution^ I don't care what — say I am 
sick. I wonder if the doctor will come. He will kill me I know. It 
is awful to think of cold steel clamping this tooth and being jammed 
away up on these gums. I'll take chloroform, I reckon, for I can't 
stand it. I am afraid he will come. I want him and I don't want him. 
The last tooth I had pulled I went to the dentist's office like a hero 
and I was glad he wasn't in — glad his door was locked — and for two 
more days I endured my agony, and then had to have it pulled at last. 
And he pulled me all to pieces, and the chloroform left me before he 
got done, and I had an awful time. The memory of it is excruciat- 
ing, and yet I have got to go through the same thing again. "Oh, 
the pity of it, lago, the pity of it." What has a man got teeth for, I 
would like to know. It is the brute that is in him, the dog, or the 
old Adam that evoluted from the monkeys. There is nothing God- 
like about teeth. They bite, that is all. They are called "canines.'' 
I saw a man bite another man's nose off*, once — the teeth did it. The 
eye is God-like, angelic, beautiful, harmless. The ear is a good thing, 
too, for it takes in the harmonies of nature, and makes music sweet 
— music, that is the only thing common to angels and to men. The 
nose is gentle and ornamental, but is not of much consequence except 
to blow off a bad cold, and tell the difference between cologne and 
codfish. But, the teeth — well, I think that false ones are better than 
the genuine, for they never ache. I don't care for any now. I am 
tired. These women can have eight or ten pulled at one time — just to 
get a new set. How in the world do they stand it? Pride, I reckon ; 
womanly pride, womanly nature. Her love of the beautiful. But 



262 The Farm and The FmEsmE. 

we men can wear a moustache, and hide a whole set of rotten snags. 
If women had beard, the dentists would perish. 

There she goes again, and then boom! Let me try some more par- 
egoric and camphor. Maybe I can go to sleep, after a while, if I will 
keep dosing. I wish I had just a small grain of dynamite behind 
that tooth, just at the end of the roots; I would explode it if it 
killed me. 

The doctor coming, you say! Merciful heavens! Well, let him 
come. In the language of Patrick Henry, '*I repeat it sir, let him 
come." ''Lay on, McDuff" — cold steel forceps, wrenching, twisting, 
crushing, gouging. I don't believe I have got a friend in the world. 
I almost wish I was dead. Teeth are a humbug — a grand mistake — a, 
blunder — an eye-tooth, especially, that sends its root away up under 
the eye and makes an abscess there. They say a child is smart when 
it cuts the eye-tooth. I believe I had rather do without and be a fool. 
I have had rheumatism, anii all sorts of pains, but I will compromise 
on anything but the toothache. I've a great respect for dentists, for 
they do the best they can to relieve mankind from this most misera- 
ble agony. 

*' Good morning, doctor. I suppose I am the unfortunate individual 
you have come to doctor. I am ready for the rack. Get out your 
chloroform, and your steel-jawed grabs ; I am ready for the sacrifice. 
Is that a dagger that I see before me ? " 

Father is in his little bed. He is asleep, now. The long agony is 
over. For nearly one hour we all wrestled with him, for the chloro- 
form gave out. He had taken so many things before the doctor came 
that chloroform failed to subdue him. It only made him delirious, 
and when we could not hold him we called in our blacksmith, and 
even then he pulled us all over the room, and the doctor had to take 
him on the wing. The old shell crushed and the roots had to be dug 
out in fragments. It was pitiful to hear him beg to go home. He 
has morphine now, and will be all right in the morning. He told me 
to write you something, and I have written. Bill Arp, Per M. 

Just now he waked up and wanted to know who whipped that fight 
— the parrot or the monkey. M. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 263 



CHAPTER LIII. 



William Gets Left. 

It is home where the heart is, and we are all happy now. Here is 
the big old family room and the spacious fireplace is crowded with the 
big back logs and the front logs and the top logs, and the cheerful, 
genial blaze leaps out at every opening and makes us all sit back in 
the family circle. I sit near the good old window and look out upon 
the same pleasing prospect ot fields and distant hills and am com- 
forted. The dogs are in the family ring and the canaries are singing 
in their cage, and the maltese cat is purring in Jessie's lap. There is 
a lively chattering of happy voices all around me, for the long spell is 
broken and the broken family almost united. I say almost, for the 
sick boy and his mother are in town at his sister's, and these children 
have not yet seen them. It was too cold to bring him five miles over 
a frozen road, and so I came out alone to give them pleasure in broken 
doses. I hoped to surprise them and peep in at the window, but they 
were on the look out down the road, and have nearly looked a hole 
through the window pane in anxious expectation. With a scream 
and a shout they all came flying down the hill to meet me, and such 
a time as we all had, hugging and kissing and dancing around with 
joy. They loaded me down and I could hardly wag along for their 
embraces. I don't believe that folks are any happier in heaven, and 
I don't know that I wish to be. 

We left Sanford last Tuesday, took the boy on a cot over the long 
wharf that stretches away out into the lake and put him aboard the 
beautiful steamer, the ''City of Jacksonville." We set him down in an 
easy chair, and when the warning bell was rung we bade a sweet good- 
by to kindred and friends and soon the engines were unloosed and the 
big wheels turned and the boat moved down the lake with quivering 
throbs. The anxious mother watched her boy with watery eyes as he 
looked out greedily upon the bright waters and feasted his eyes once 



264 The Farm and The Fireside. 

more upon scenes outside of a sick chamber. The boy has no use of 
his lower limbs and has to be carried in arms from place to place, and 
it was no small trouble to get him through narrow doors and up and 
down the stairs and into the cars, but next morning we got him safely 
on a sleeper at Jacksonville and then breathed easier, for it was the 
last transfer until we got to Macon. 

Waycross. I see Waycross now. I expect to see Waycross in 
visions by day and in dreams by night for years to come. I have 
memories of Waycross. I like Waycross, for it is a bright and pleas- 
ant town, and has good hotels and pleasant homes, and is kept lively 
with moving trains, but I had an awful time at Waycross. Our train 
stopped there and had to wait for a train on another road, they said, 
and I got out with other passengers and walked the broad platform, 
but keeping an eye upon our sleeper and within easy reach of it. 
There were two sleepers behind ours that belonged to the train, and so 
I meandered along down to where a newsboy was selling Savannah 
morning papers. I gave him a quarter and was quietly waiting for 
the change when suddenly I heard a darkey say: "Macon is just 
a slippin' and a slidin' oft." I looked around instantly to see what he 
meant, and sure enough she was already a hundred yards away moving 
like a black snake over the ground and getting faster with every 
moment. The two rear sleepers had been cut off and I did not know 
it. I will never forget the concentrated misery of that moment when 
I realized that my wife and helpless boy were gone and I was left. 
My heart sank down, my voice left me, and all my philosophy was 
gone. I grew weak and faintish, and sat down on a bench to collect 
myself and consider the awful situation. Whatwill they do? Wl^en 
will they find out that I am not somewhere on the train? The boy 
will soon want me, I know, and his mother wdll send the porter to 
hunt me up. The conductor will soon call for our fare, and I have 
the passes, and my wife no money. By and by she will learn that I 
am not on the train, and then, ah! then. I could see the tears in her 
eyes and the quivering lips, and the nervous restlessness of the boy, 
and there was no help. Arousing myself, I hurried to the telegraph 
that was clicking near by and asked hurriedly for a dispatch to be sent 
to Jesup so that the operator there might tell the conductor or my 
wife that I was safe, and would overtake them at Macon. My anxiety 
was intense, but I got no sympathy. The youth said all right, and I 



The Farm and The Fireside. 265 

waited for an assurance from the operator at Jesup that he would 
attend to it. I called three times for an answer from him, but got 
none. When, for the third time, I asked and almost begged for him 
to ask for a reply, he said with uncivil indifference: ''I have got no 
time, sir; I am busy." Well, he was very busy — smoking a cigar and 
chatting with a friend. He was not at the instrument. A gentleman 
near by noted the incivility and told me I had better go up to the 
Western Union if I wanted attention. This was news to me, for I 
had thought all the time that this was the Western Union, but sud- 
denly found that it was only a railroad office. I had paid him for a 
dispatch to Mr. Brown, of Macon, that called for an answer, and two 
hours had passed and none had come. So I went to the Western 
tJnion and repeated to Mr. Brown and soon had a reply that he would 
meet my wife and boy and take care of them. Her desolation and 
distress was complete when she learned that I was missing — nobody 
called on her or the conductor at Jesup. The train rolled on and 
passed Eastman before her fears began, and from there to Macon she 
imagined I had fallen from the platform or in some way had met my 
death, and when at last she reached Macon, and Mr. Brown came in 
the sleeper and told her I was all right, she and the boy both cried 
with joy. The Brown house gave them kind welcome and every atten- 
tion. They had a good night's rest and were only aroused by a vigor- 
ous knock at the door at four o'clock next morning. That was me. 
The poet says: 

** One glorious hour of crowded life 
Is worth an age without a name." 

And just so ^e can sometimes live longer and live more in a minute 
than at any other time in a month. I dident blame her for slipping 
off and leaving me, and she didn't blame me for stopping at Way cross, 
but now that the long agony is over, we can smile at our mutual woes 
and fears. My kind and considerate wife has not told told it on me 
but fourteen times up to this date, and I don't expect to hear of it 
any longer than I live. She gently hinted yesterday that she didn't 
suppose that I would ever mention Waycross in my Sunday letter, for 
it was most too personal and was not of a character to interest the 
public. So you perceive I have taken the hint and told it all just as 
it was. As General Lee said at the battle of Gettysburgh : * * It was 
all my fault. It was all my fault." 



266 The Farm and The Fireside. 

I shall step oflf no more trains to buy a paper, and I now warn all 
travelers to stand by the car the wife is in and not go fooling down the 
line. Dick Hargis hollers "All aboard" like a fog horn when his 
train is ready to move, and you can hear him a quarter of a mile, but 
Dick can't run all the trains and so ever and anon some poor fellow 
like me is bound to be left. 

Farewell, Waycross. •! found some pleasant friends there before I 
left, and they comforted me, especially the host of the Grand Central, 
who was an old Gwinnett boy, and we revived many recollections of 
of our youthful days. But still when I think of Waycross, it is with 
feelings somewhat like those we have when we visit an old-time battle- 
field, where we fought, bled and died for liberty. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 267 



CHAPTER LIV. 



Pleasures of Hope and Memory. 

We see that Dr. Curry, that great and good man, is writing the 
reminiscences of his youth. How lovingly he proceeds with his work! 
How gushingly he tells of his old school days, and the halos and rain- 
bows that gilded his childhood! How reverently he writes of the 
grand old men of the olden time, for there were giants in those days! 
How feelingly he records his companionship with the family negroes 
— the servants of the household who were contented and happy and 
trusting, and who loved and honored every member of their master's 
family, and were loved by them! Oh, the tender and tcary recollec- 
tions of 'possum hunts and coon hunts and rabbit hunts and corn 
shuckings, and eating watermelons in the cotton patch and sometimes 
finding them while pulling fodder in the hot and sultry cornfield! 
What frolics in going to mill and going in washing and jumping from 
the springboard into ten-foot water! What glorious sport in playing 
town-ball and bull-pen and cat and roily-hole and knucks and sweep- 
stakes. Base-ball has grown out of town-ball; it is no improvement. 
The pitcher used to belong to the ins and threw the best ball he could, 
for he wanted it hit, and knocked as far away as possible, but now he 
belongs to the outs and wants it missed. We used to throw at a boy 
to stop him running to another base, and we hit him if we could, but 
these modern balls are hard and heavy and dangerous, and many a 
boy goes home with a bruised face or a broken finger. We used to 
take an old rubber shoe and cut it into strings and wind it tight into a 
ball until it was half grown, and then finish it with yarn that was un- 
raveled from an old woolen sock. Our good mothers furnished every- 
thing and then made a buckskin cover and stitched it over so nice. 
Oh, my, how those balls would bounce, and yet they didn't hurt very 
bad when hit by them. They were sweet to throw and sweet to catch. 
I heard lying Tom Turner say he had one that bounced so high it 



'26S The Farm and The Fireside. 

never came down till next day, and then his little dog grabbed it, and 
it took the dog up, and he had never seen the dog nor the ball since. 
I used to believe that but I don't now. When we played town-ball 
some of the outs would circle away ofi 200 yards, and it was glorious 
to see them catch a ball that had nearly reached the sky as it grace- 
fully curved from the stroke of the bat. We had an hour and a half 
for recess, and most of it was spent in town-ball or bull-pen. Bull- 
pen was no bad game, especially when the ins got down to two and 
the juggling began. I used to be so proud because I could stand in 
the middle of the pen and defy the jugglers to hit me for I was 
slender and active and could bend in or bend out or squat down or 
jump up and dodge every ball that came, but I couldn't do it now, 
not much I couldn't, for alas! I can neither squat nor jump and a 
boy could hit my corporosity as easy as a barn door. Oh these mem- 
orys, how sweet they haunt us. 

" I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born; 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn." 

Of course I do — everybody does. The other night there were ten 
of our school board in session, and the special business was whether to 
give a longer recess at noon or not, and it was curious to hear the 
various opinions on the subject. Our president listened patiently to 
aU and then made a speech for himself, and said that the children 
should have more time to go home and get a good warm dinner. 
"Cold dinners," he said, " are unhealthy. The laws of hygiene teach 
us that the processes of digestion are much more easily carried on 
when the food is warm and fresh from the oven. More than half of 
the pupils take their dinners to school shut up in tin buckets or 
wrapped up in baskets, and they get cold and clammy, and are 
crammed into the stomach in a hurry, and the children go to playing 
before digestion begins, and of course the stomach rebels and won't do its 
work, and after school is out they go home and cram in a lot of cake 
and jelly and pickle on top of the cold, undigested dinner, and the 
first thing you know the boy or the girl is sick and has to stay at home 
a day or two to recuperate. I am decidedly ia favor of a longer 
recess and warm dinners." 



The Farm and The FmEsroE. 269 

That was a good speech and a sensible argument, but it hurt my 
:feelmgs so bad that I rose forward and in trembling accents told how 
I went to school three miles from home for three long and happy- 
years, and carried my dinner in a bucket, and how I enjoyed those 
cold dinners that my good mother so carefully prepared and how I 
had often tried to write a poem to that little tin bucket — such a poem 
as Wordsworth wrote about * ' The old oaken bucket that hung in the 
well." My poem began just like his, 'but always ended with, 

That dear little bucket, 

That bright, shining bucket, 

That little tin bucket I carried to school. 

Oh those delightful cold dinners that were so nicely arranged ! The 
tender and luscious fried chicken, with the liver and gizzard and all; 
the hard-boiled eggs, with the little paper of pepper and salt close by ; 
the home-made sausages, linked sausages, that, in the language of 
.Milton, were *' linked sweetness — long drawn out;'' the little bottle 
of syrup and the round, hand-made biscuit that were beaten from the 
dough and had no soda in them — and last of all, the good, old- 
fashioned ginger cakes and the turn-over pies. Ah, those rights and 
lefts, those delicious juicy pies that were made of peaches that my 
mother dried. 

Just then there was a racket behind me and Will Howard was seen 
falling over in his chair, with his hands clasped below the belt and his 
eyes rolled up to heaven. He gasped piteously as he whispered : 
*'Hush, Major, hush, for heaven's sake." Martin Collins shouted, 
" Glory !" and Judge Milner heaved a troubled sigh and murmured, 
**0h, would I were a boy again." 

For fear of a scene I suspended my broken remarks, and our wor- 
thy president gracefully subsided. Major Foute wiped his eyes with 
his empty sleeve and moved for an adjournment, and so the recess 
hour remains unchanged. 

I believe it is best for children to walk a mile or two to school, 
especially if there are other children to walk with them a part of the 
way. Every step of that three-mile way is dear to me now, and I 
love to recall the boyish frolics as morning and evening we meandered 
along, playing tag or mad dog, or running foot races, or jumping 
half-hammond, or stopping at the half-way branch to wade in the 
water, or dam it up, or catch the tadpoles, or drive the little min- 



270 The Farm and The Fireside. 

nows into their holes. It was there that I saw for the first time a 
tadpole turning to a frog, and it was there we killed a water mocca- 
sin, with a frog in his throat, and saw his frogship kick out backwards 
and hop away. I can go now to the very gully that had a vein of red 
chalk, and another one that had white. I know every persimmon 
tree and chestnut and hickory, and where the red haws were, and the 
black haws and the fruitful walnut that we climbed in its season and 
rattled the nuts to the ground and stained our hands and clothes in 
hulling them. All such things are around me now, not far away, but 
there is no charm, no fond memory about them, for they were not 
mine. All these are for another generation — another set of boys and 
girls. By and by they will be looking back at theirs as I am looking 
back at mine. In a few more years they will reverse the telescope; 
Until I was past thirty I looked through the little end and saw life 
expanded and magnified before me, while the distant things were 
brought almost within reach, and I was nearing the goal with my hope 
and my ambition, but alas! I havn't reached it, and by degrees hope 
weakened and ambition became chilled, and with a sad humility I 
began to look backwards — I reversed the telescope and saw my life 
away back in the distant past. The picture was far — very far away, 
but it was beautiful, and now as the years grow short, I find myself 
looking through the large end almost altogether. The memories of 
the past grow sweeter as the years roll on. The capital stock of the 
young is hope — but the treasure of age is memory. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 271 



CHAPTER LV. 



Arp's Reminiscences of Fifty Years. 

A sweet little girl from Marietta writes me a nice letter and begs 
me to write something for the children — just for the children. 

I never look upon a flock of happy, well-raised children without 
wondering if they Snow how well off they are — how much better off 
than their grandparents were some fifty or sixty years ago. I would 
like to see old Father Time set his clock back a half a century just for 
a week and put everything like it was then, and I would walk around 
and have lots of fun out of those little folks. I don't believe they 
could stand it a whole week, but it would do them good to try. In 
the first place, they would have to get out of their comfortable houses 
with plastered walls and large glass windows and coal grates, and get 
into smaller houses with about two rooms in front and a back shed 
room, that had no fireplace and no ceiling and a window with a 
wooden shutter, and in that shed room they would have to sleep, 
and the wind would come clipping in all night and kiss their faces 
ever so nice. They would have to take off all their pretty clothes, 
and wear country jeans and linsey, and they would have to go 
to the shoemakers and have some coarse, rough shoes made of country 
leather and no high heels nor box toes nor buttons. But they would 
be good and strong, and two pairs would last any boy or girl a whole 
year — one pair would do them if they greased them now and then and 
went barefooted during summer as we used to do. All the store 
stockings would have to be dispensed with, and the elastic too, and 
they would put on some good warm ones that were knit by hand, and 
be tied up with a rag. No nice hats from the milliners, with pretty 
flowers and ribbons gay flying, but the girls would have to put on 
home-made bonnets, nicely quilted, and the boys have to wear home- 
made wool hats or seal-skin caps that would last two or three years, 
and stretch bigger as the heads grew bigger. There would not be found 



272 The Farm and The Fireside. 

a store in the whole State where ready-made clothing could be found — 
not a coat nor a pair of pants, nor a shirt, nor a skirt, nor a doll, nor 
hardly a toy of any kind. I suppose that some few things for chil- 
dren might be found in Augusta, or Savannah, or Macon; but the 
country stores wouldent have anything, not even candy or oranges or 
a box of raisins. A boy could find a dog knife or a barlow, and be 
allowed about one a year, but the little girls couldent even find a 
thimble small enough nor a pair of scissors. Children were not of 
much consequence then, especially girls. 

I would like to see the clock set back for one week and see the boys 
cutting wood and making fires, cutting wood half the day Saturday 
for Sunday, and Sunday morning sitting down to learn some more of 
the shorter catechism about justification, and sanotification, and adop- 
tion and some more verses in the Bible, and that poetry in the prim- 
mer about — • 

" In Adam's fall 

We sinned all. 

The cat doth play 

And after slay. 

Xerxes must die 

And so must I. 

Zacheus, he 

Did climh a tree 

His Lord to see." 

I would like to see one of these boys wake up some cold mornings 
and when he tried to make a fire and stirred around among the ashes 
to find a coal, he couldent find one, and what then? Not a match in 
the wide, wide world, for there was none invented. Wouldent he be 
in a fix! Well, he would have to run over to the nabors, if he was a 
town boy, and borrow a chunk. If he was a country boy he would 
have to walk a mile or so, maybe, and nearly freeze to death before 
he got back, and if it was raining his chunk would be apt to go out 
on the way. I would like to see these boys and girls studying their 
lessons by the light of one tallow candle. No gas, no kerosene, no 
oil of any sort — only one flickering light of a candle, or maybe only 
a lightwood blaze in the fireplace. I reckon they would study hard 
and study fast and go to bed soon and get up early in the morning 
and try it again. I would like to see them sit down to write a letter 
and find nothing but an old goose quill for a pen — not a steel pen ia 



The Farm and The Fieesede. 273 

in the world. I would watch the poor fellow as he tried to make a 
pen out of a quill, and after he had cut it to a point see him try to 
split it in the middle with his knife, and split too far or not far 
enough, or on one side and then throw it away in despair. 

It would all Ke fun to us old folks, but it wouldent be fun for the 
boys or the girls to be set back. But there are old people living now 
who do the same old things and live the same old way. Colonel Camp- 
bell Wallace still uses the quill pens and makes them himself, and I 
wish you could see how nicely and how quickly he can do it. Our 
school teachers had to make the pens for all their scholars, and it took 
about half their time, for they had to mend them oftener than make 
them. When the first split wore out he had to split it again and trim 
it down to a new point. His knife was always open and ready. 
Poor man ! He died before the steel pens were invented and never 
got the good of them. 

But we were used to these ways and never thought hard of them. 
Judge Lester used to run over to our house of a cold morning and say 
to my mother: "Please mam, lend me a chunk of fire," and I used 
to go over to his house and do the same thing. But we didn't let it 
go out often. We knew how to cover up fire in the ashes so as to keep 
it till morning. I remember going over to Forsyth county once 
when an old Indian lived there by the name of Sawnee. He didn't 
go off with the rest of the Indians, but lived on a mountain called 
Sawnee's mountain, and he had some grandsons about our age. 
George Lester and Cicero Strong were with me, and we gave an 
Indian boy some money to show us how they got fire when their fire 
went out. He took two dry hickory sticks about a foot long and as 
large as my thumb and a little bunch of dry grass, and started off on 
a run, and rubbed the sticks together so rapidly that you could hardly 
see them, and the friction made fire and caught the grass, and he 
came back in half a minute with a blaze in his hand. I used to go 
down to the store at night with my fiither, and he had a tinder box 
nailed up by the door and would strike the steel with the flint and 
make a spark and let it fall on a piece of punk and light it, and then 
he would light his candle from the punk. But matches came along 
after awhile and stopped all that. I remember the first matches that 
came to our town. They were called Lucifer matches for some folks 
thought that the ''old boy" had something to do with them and 



274 The Farm and The Fireside. 

wouldent use them. They smelled strong of brimstone and were sold 
at twenty-five cents a box. Now ten times as many bcII for a nickle. 
But about lights. Dipping the candles was one of the notable events 
of the year. It was almost as big a thing as hog killing. The boys 
prepared the canes or reeds, about sixty in number, as large as the 
little finger and nearly a yard long. They were smoothed at the 
joints and put away in a bundle to dry. When the time come, the 
first cold weather in the fall, our mother would get out the candle 
wick and wind it around a pair of cotton cards, end ways, and after 
a good deal was wound would cut one end with the scissors and that 
made the wicks when doubled just long enough for a candle. Three 
or four canes were then interlaced through the back of an old-fash- 
ioned chair to keep them steady while she looped the wicks around 
them and twisted their ends together. Seven wicks were put on each 
cane and when the cane was taken out and held horizontal the wicks 
hung down and were about two inches apart. When all the canes 
were full they were laid upon a table ready for dipping. The tallow 
was melted in a big wash pot. Some beeswax was added and a little 
alum. Old plank were placed on the floor where the dipping and 
dripping w^as to be. Two long poles or quilting frames were placed 
parallel on the backs of chairs and were wide enough apart to let the 
candles between and hold up the canes. The big pot had to be kept 
nearly full all the time. A cane of wicks was let down slowly in the 
pot, until the cane rested on its edges. Then it was lifted up and 
allowed to drip awhile and then placed as number one between the 
long poles where, if it dripped any more it was on the old plank. The 
first course was long and tedious, for it took the loose cotton wick 
some time to absorbe the tallow. After that the process was rapid. 
Tallow would harden on tallow quickly, and at every dipping the lit- 
tle candles got larger until after awhile they were large enough at the 
bottom ends to fill a candlestick, and that ended the job. They were 
left on the poles over night and then slipped off the rods and placed 
in the candlebox or an old trunk. , 

Seven times sixty made 420 candles, and that was the year's sup- 
ply. Only one candle was usual for the table in the family room. 
The reading and sewing was all done by that. The boys were allowed 
a piece of one to go to bed by. Nobody sat up until midnight then. 
The night was believed to be created for sleep and rest, and the day 



The Farm and The Fireside. 275 

for work. There were no theaters nor skating rinks — no reading nov- 
els half the night and lying in bed until breakfast next morning. 
The rule was to go to bed at nine o'clock and get up with the chick- 
ens. But now we couldn't read by candle light. It takes at least 
two lamps, and one lamp is equal to ten candles. But we got along 
pretty well. All the substantial things were as good as they are 
now. Good water, good air, good sunshine and shower, good health, 
good warm clothes, good bread and meat and milk and butter, good 
peaches and apples, good horses to ride, good fishing and swimming 
and hunting. We dident have railroads and telegraphs and tele- 
phones and sewing machines, and so forth, but we didn't need them. 
We need them now, for the world is so full of people that the old 
ways wouldent feed and clothe them. The right thing always comes 
along at the right time. If the clock was set back I wonder how this 
generation would manage about the cooking business. Fifty years 
ugo there were no cooking-stoves. The ovens and skillets and spiders 
were big heavy things that had to be lifted on and off the fire with a 
pair of pot-hooks. They had heavy lids, and the cooking was done 
by putting coals underneath and coals on top. It took bark and chips 
to make coals quickly, and our old cook used to say, *'Now git me 
some bark, little master, and I gib you a bikket when he done." 
There was no soda, or tartaric acid, or baking powder. The biscuit 
were made by main strength. The dough was kneaded by strong 
arras, and sometimes it was beaten with the rolling pin until it blis- 
tered. When the dough blistered it was' good and made good bis- 
cuit. I can't say that we have any better cooking now than we had 
then ; but the stove makes it a great deal easier to cook. 

The boys had no baseball, but they had bullpen and cat and town- 
bail and roley hole and tag and sweepstakes and pull over the mark 
and foot races and so forth, and they thought there was nothing bet- 
ter. They had the best rubber balls in the world, and made them 
themselves. Some of them could bounce thirty feet high. They 
were made by cutting an old rubber shoe into strings and winding the 
strings into a ball and covering it with buckskin. But after awhile 
the rubber shoes were not made of all rubber. They were mixed with 
something that took some of the bounce out, and our balls degener- 
ated. There was an old man living near us who was called "Lying 
Tom Turner," aud he told us boys one day that when he was a boy 



276 The Farm and The Fireside. 

he had a rubber ball that he was afraid to bounce hard for fear it 
would go up out of sight and he would lose it. We asked him what 
became of his ball, and he said he bounced it one day most too hard 
and it went up into the clouds and was gone half an hour, and whea 
it came down his little dog grabbed it in his mouth, and it rebounced 
and carried the dog up with it out of sight, and he had never seen the 
ball nor the little dog since. 

Well, I don't know which times are the best — the old times or the 
new. It is very nice to have a nice house and nice furniture and nice 
clothes and lots of nice story books and to ride on the cars, but in ,the 
old times people didn't hanker after such things, and they were easy 
to please, and were in no hurry to get through life, and there were no 
suicides, and very few crazy folks, and no pistols to carry in the hip- 
pockets. Nowadays there is a skeleton in most every house. I don't 
mean a real skeleton, but some great big trouble that throws a dark 
shadow over the family. There were not any exciting books to read — 
no sensation novels that poison the mind, just like bad food poisons 
the body. There were but half a dozen newspapers in the whole 
State, and they didn't have whole columns full of murders and sui- 
cides and robberies and awful fires that burned up poor lunatics and 
all other horrid things to make a tender heart feel bad. There was 
nobody very rich and nobody very poor, and we had as great men 
then as we have now. 

If the clock was set back, and the little girl who wrote to me 
wanted to go to Augusta wdth her grandpa to visit her kinfolks, she 
would have to get in the mail coach and jog along all day and all 
night at four miles an hour and pay ten cents a mile, and it would 
take two days and nights, and she would be tired almost to death and 
80 would her grandpa. Well, they just couldn't go. But now they 
can go as cheap as to stay at home, and do it iu less time, as the Irish- 
man said. 

But the clock will not be set back, and so we must all be content 
with things as they are, and make them better if we can. 



The Farm and The FmEsn)E. 277 



CHAPTER LVI. 



WiixLiAM AND His Wife Visit the City. 

The old carpet in the family room has been down and up and up 
and down for seventeen years. It has been the best carpet we ever 
had. It used to be the parlor carpet, but was reduced to a lower rank 
a long time ago. Time and children and dogs and cats and brooms 
have worked on it until it is faded and slick and threadbare. The 
colors are gone and so are the figures and the fuz and the nap, but it 
is a carpet still. It has been taken up and hung on the fence and 
beaten with thrash poles about seventeen times, and yet there is not a 
hole in it. In its aristocratic days it bore the burden of aristocratic 
shoes and fancy slippers, and music and song and love making, and 
the parlor dance, and the family weddings. Its downy flowers treas- 
ured many a secret and many a joy. But in course of time it ceased 
to be the pride of the family, and became its servant. We have 
raised children on that carpet — rough boys and romping girls. We 
have raised dogs and cats. It has been the mudsills of a nursery and 
a menagerie and a schoolroom and a circus. As its colors disappeared 
in the middle and around the hearthstone Mrs. Arp would take it up 
and change corners and bring to the front a brighter portion that lay 
hidden under the bed and the bureau and the sofa. She has done 
this so often that there is little difference now. Every part has trav- 
eled the grand rounds over and over again. 

Mrs. Arp has been hinting about a new carpet for some time. 
**We could do without it if I couldn't afford it," she said, " and I 
must have a talma cloak anyhow, and the children needed so many 
things, but she didn't want anything for herself" Of course she 
didn't. I didn't give her a chance. I keep her supplied. I never 
said anything — I just looked into the fire and ruminated. She knows 
my weakness. It's all honey and sugar and a little flattery thrown 
in. When it comes to driving and bulldozing I am an austere man. 



278 The Farm and The Fireside. 

I am, and she knows it. She said last week that she had promised 
Ralph to go down to Atlanta and see him, and while there she could 
get a cloak and some little things for the children for Christmas. 
" I'll go with you," said I. ''I wish to see Ralph, too, and keep him 
encouraged. I think he will make a pretty good doctor in ten or 
fifteen years, if he keeps on studying and cutting up stiffs and holding 
the candle for Dr. Westmoreland. He uses powerful big words now 
for a boy of his size. He talks about anesthetics and antiskeptics, and 
the like." It wasn't much trouble to get her off*, and she never said 
nary time that she had nothing to wear. She has got past that at last. 
We took one of the girls along as a chaperone, for my wife and I 
haven't kept up with city style and street behavior and how to shop 
and look at fine things like we were used to them. We had hardly 
got off* the cars when she met an old friend and hugged and kissed her, 
and they got to talking about old times and somebody that was dead, 
and my wife she got' full in the throat and watery in the eyes, and 
they blocked up the sidewalk and everybody had to walk around 
them, and so to prevent a scene our chaperone dissolved the interview 
and we hurried on to Whitehall. It has been built up wonderfully 
since Mrs. Arp was there, and the show windows are just beautiful 
beyond description. She stopped squarely before the first jewelry 
store and feasted her hazel eyes in rapturous amazement. "Did you 
ever in your life? Isen't that perfectly lovely? Do look at that lit- 
tle cherub swinging to that clock for a pendulum. I wonder if those 
are real diamonds in those brooches. Oh my! see that beautiful 
breastpin. Wouldent Jessie love to wear that. Poor thing, she has 
never had a nice pin." The chaperone began to take on a little, too, and 
the passsing crowd had to go round us again, and some of them looked 
back and smiled, and that made me mad, and so I took my women 
folks away from there and remarked : * ' I wouldn't stop to look at 
everything. People will think you never saw anything pretty or fine* 
in your life." Mrs. Arp prouded up her head and said: *' What do 
I care for people. The merchants put their finest things in the win- 
dows to be looked at, and I am going to look just as much as I please,'' 
and she stopped squarely against another window and began the inspec- 
tion of those lovely ladies' shoes. Mrs. Arp goes perfectly daft on fine 
shoes — No. 2s. Daft is the word she uses on me sometimes, but I don't 
know what it means. She says I promised her thirteen pair a year 



The Farm and The FmEsroE. 219 

before she married me. One pair a month and one pair over. Maybe 
I did, but I've forgotten all those things. Tliej were not said in a 
lucid interval. ''Now buy your shoes," said I, ''and let us move on 
to the carpet store; it will be dinner time directly." She looked at 
me in sweet surprise and followed me like a lamb, for I hadent men- 
tioned the carpet before. We went to the carpet store, and there 
were so many beautiful patterns that she couldent decide on any. The 
carpet men unrolled piece after piece, and sent the rolls whirling away 
down the room and then back again, and they kept getting lovelier 
and lovelier, and the price higher and higher, until my wife sighed, 
and said: "Well, let us go now; we will come back again after 
awhile." I followed them around meekly, and, as we passed a French 
clock, I pointed to the hour, and it was 2 o'clock p. m. "Only an 
hour and a half longer to stay," said I, "and we have had no dinner." 
They didn't seem to be worried about the dinner, and made a final 
assault upon another carpet store, and I had to settle it at last and 
make a choice for them. I always do. I used to be a merchant, and 
kept the finest and prettiest goods in town. I used to sell Mrs. Arp 
fine dressing when she was a miss, and she wouldn't trade anywhere 
else, and it took her a long time to make up her mind, and I had to 
make it up for her just as I do now. She never traded much at any 
other store, and, to my opinion, there is about as much courting done 
over the counter by day as in the parlor by night. After we were 
married she traded with me altogether. Thirty-six yards of carpeting 
was all that I had bargained for when I left home, but there was a 
rug and a hassock and two pairs of shoes and some sylabub stuff for 
ruffles and flounces and a few Christmas things, and by the time we 
got to Durand's we had only twenty minutes far dinner. We were all 
happy and hungry, too, and the dinner was splendid, and my wife 
brought home a basket of fruit for the children, and she told them all 
about the big day's work, and the beautiful things, and whom she saw, 
and I reckon it was worth the money that was spent and more too. 
The carpet came along in due time all ready made, and three of the 
children were at school, and dident know it, and we hurried up and 
took everything out of the room and bid farewell to the old one, and 
cleaned up the straw and the dust, and washed up the floor and the 
windows, and put down the paper, and the carpet on top of it, 
and pulled, and stretched, and tugged and tacked until it was all 



280 The Farm and The Fireside. 

right. Then we put the furniture all back just like it was, and sat 
down before the fire just like nothing had happened, and in about ten 
minutes the school chaps came singing up to the back door and walked 
in upon us before they had time to look down, and it was worth $5 
more to hear the raptures and adjectives and adverbs and exclama- 
tion points and other parts of speech that they indulged in when their 
wondering eyes feasted upon the rich brown colors under their feet. If 
I was rich I would buy another carpet right away just to have another 
good time with Mrs. Arp and the children. 

But we didn't have the pleasure of Ralph's company at last. I 
found him at Dr. Westmoreland's with his sleeves rolled up, helping 
the doctor to mend a man's broken arm. They had a little tub half 
full of plaster paris in solution, and a lot of bandage rolls in it, get- 
ting saturated. They set the bones and kept the arm pulled straight, 
while the bandages were wrapped from wrist to elbow, and elbow to 
wrist, and wrapped again and again, and the plaster hardened as fast 
as it was rolled on, and in a few minutes it was hard as chalk and 
nearly half an inch thick, and the man's arm was in a vice. He was 
was soon dismissed, and the doctor said "next." Then there was a 
man whose hand was crushed between the cars, and another who had 
an awful splinter thrust into his stomach, and a child with a grain of 
coffee in her lungs, and her throat had to be cut open. It is cutting 
and mending and sewing up human flesh and bones all the day long, 
and blood is as common as water. There is no time for sympathy or 
tender words. It is business- — hard, stern business, and the signal 
word is **next." May the Lord keep us all and preserve us from such 
calamities. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 281 



CHAPTER LVII. 



The Buzzard Lope. 

Fm going to quit thinking about the race problem, and the tariff, 
and Speaker Reed, and John Wanamaker, and everything else of a 
turbulent and transitory nature. Fm going to boycott everything 
now except domestic affairs. Fm going to attend to my own 
business. I'm going to stay at home and work, and if I read a paper 
at all it will be with one eye on the head lines and nothing else. 

They say that exercise is a remedy for trouble — trouble of mind or 
trouble of body. Get up and move around lively. My old father 
was afflicted with rheumatism, and when the sharp pains began to 
worry him he would take his long stick and start out over the farm 
and limp, and grunt, and drag himself along until he got warmed up, 
and in an hour or so would come back feeling better. A man can 
mope and brood over his troubles until, as Cobe says, "they get more 
thicker and more aggrevatiner." He told me that he had tried liver 
medicine and corn juice and various ** anecdotes" for disease, but that 
a right good sweat of perspiration was the best thing for a man or a 
beast. He used to cure mules of the colic by trotting them around 
until the sweat come. 

I haven't got the colic nor the rheumatism, but I feel such a con- 
stant uxorial goneness that I have to step around lively to forget 
myself. I feel just like I had lost my tobacco. The sparrows are 
regailing on my strawberries. The happy mocking birds are singing 
their tee diddle and too doodle, and the lordly peacock screams and 
struts and spreads his magnificent tail, and all nature seems gay and 
joyous, but how can the lord of creation sing a glad song when his 
lady is far away in a strange land. A letter from there says: 
** Mamma is having a good time and behaving so nice to everybody." 
Of course, of course. And Fm nice to everybody here — especially 
the ladies. Some of them come every day — come to comfort me, they 
say. I'm having a pretty good time considering. We had some fine 



282 The Farm and The Fireside. 

music last night — some of the boys came home with Carl to practice 
for a serenade to the spring chickens. They had a guitar and some 
harps and a triangle, and were right good singers besides, and I enjoyed 
it immensely. Jessie is a musician, too, and when she struck the 
ivory key with some saltatory notes like, "Oh Jinny is your Ash-cake 
Done," and ''The Highland Fling" and "Run Nigger Run," accom- 
panied by the sweet harmonicas and the guitar, I just couldent keep 
my old extremities subdued, and they got me up and toted me around 
on light fantastic toes amazing. I was all by myself in the next 
room, but I had lots of fun. It does a man good sometimes to unbend 
himself and forget his antiquity. I like a little hornpipe or a pigeon 
wing on the sly sometimes. It may be original sin, or it may be that 
there is a time to dance, as Solomon says, but I like it. My beard is 
growing gray, and there's not many hairs between my head and the 
cerulean heavens, but I'm obliged to have some recreation, especially 
when Mrs. Arp is away. You ought to see me caper around to the 
music with a little grand-child, a three-year-old who chooses me for a 
partner whenever the music begins. She knows the dancing tunes as 
well as I do, bless her little heart. My boys have got a new step now 
that they call the "buzzard lope," that is grand, lively and peculiar. 
The story goes that an old darkey lost his aged mule, and found him 
one Sunday evening lying dead in the woods and forty-nine buzzards 
feasting upon his carcass. Forty-eight of them flew away, but the 
forty-ninth, whose feathers were gray with age, declined to retire. 
Looking straight at the darkey, he spread his wings about half-and- 
half, like the American eagle on a silver dollar, and tucked his tail 
under his body and drew in his chin and pulled down his vast and 
began to lope around the dead mule in a saltatory manner. He was 
a greedy bird and liked his meat served rare, and rejoiced that he now 
had the carcass all to himself, and so he loped around with alacrity. 
The old darkey was a fiddler and dancer by instinct and inspiration. 
He had danced all the dances and pranced all the prances of his 
naborhood for half a century. He had played prompter for the 
white folks at a thousand frolics, and knew every step and turn and 
fling of the heel-tap and the toe, but he had never seen such a peculiar 
double demi-semi-quiver shuffle as that old buzzard loped around that 
mule. He stood aghagt. He spread his arms just half-and-half, and 
bent his back in the middle, unlimbered his ankle joints, stiffened his 



The Farm and The FiPwEside. 283 

elbows, and forgetting both the day and the place, he followed that 
bird around that mule for four solid hours and caught the exquisite 
lope exactly. At dusk the tired buzzard souzed his beak into one of 
dead mule's eyes and bore it away to his roost, while the old darkey 
loped all the way home to his cabin door, feeling ten years younger 
for his masterpiece. The buzzard lope suits an old man splendid, for 
it is best performed with rheumatism in one leg and St. Vitus dance 
in the other, and it is said to be a sovereign remedy for both. 

Some folks don't care much about music — some don't care anything 
about dancing, but some folks like both because it is their nature and 
they can't help it. It is just as natural for children to love to dance 
to the harmony of sweet sounds as it is for them to love to play mar- 
bles or jump the rope, or any other innocent sport. The church 
allows its members to pat the foot to music, but condemns dancing 
because it leads to dissipation and bad company ; but we shouldn't let 
it lead the young folks that way. The church condemns minstrel 
shows and minstrel songs, but has lately stolen from them some ot 
their sweetest tunes, and set them to sacred verse, and is all the better 
for it. Who does not appreciate the ' ' Lilly of the Valley" that is now 
sung to the ** Cabin in the Lane?" Puritanism, and penance, and 
long faces, and assumed distress are passing away. The Methodist 
discipline that forbade jewelry, and ornaments, and fine dressing has 
become obsolete, for it was against nature. What our creator has 
given us to enjoy, let us enjoy in reason and in season and be all the 
more thankful for His goodness. 

I believe in music. Joseph Henry Lumpkin, our great chief jus- 
tice, said there was music in all things except the braying of an ass 
or the tongue of a scold. I believe in the refining infiuences of music 
over the young, and if an occasional dance at home or in the parlor 
of a friend will make the young folks happy, let them be happy. I 
read Dr. Calhoun's beautiful lecture that he delivered before the 
Atlanta Medical college— a lecture on the human throat as a musical 
instrument — and I was charmed with its science, its instruction, and 
its literary beauty. I read part of it to those boys who were practic- 
ing for the serenade — about the wonders of the human larynx, that in 
ordinary singers could produce 120 different sounds, and fine singers 
like Jenny Lind could produce a thousand, and Madam Mora, whose 
voice compassed three octaves, could produce 2,100 different notes; 



284 The Farm and The Fireside. 

and about Farinelli, who cured Phillip V., king of Spain, of a dread- 
ful malady by singing to him, and after he was fully restored he waa 
afraid of a relapse and hired Farinelli to sing to him every night at a 
salary of fifty thousand francs, and he sang to him as David harped 
for Saul. Music fills up so many gaps in the family. The young 
people can't work and read and study all the time. They must have 
recreation, and it is better to have it at home than hunt for it else- 
where. If the old folks mope and grunt and complain around the 
house, it is no wonder that the children try to get away. And they 
will get away if they have to marry to do it. I have known girls to 
marry very trifling lovers because they were tired of home. This 
reminds me of a poor fellow who was hard pressed by a creditor to 
whom he owed forty dollars. He came to employ us to get a home- 
stead for him so as to save his little farm. *'Are you a married 
man?" said I. *'No, I aint," said he. ''Well, you will have to get 
married before you can take a homestead. Is there no clever girl in 
your naborhood whom you have a liking for ?" He looked straight in 
the fire for a minute or more, and then rose up and shook his long, 
sandy hair, and said; ''Gentlemen, the jig are up. I'll have to 
shindig around and get that money, for I'll be dogond if I'll get mar- 
ried for forty dollars. Good mornin'." 

We are working hard, now, renovating and repairing the home 
inside and outside. We have whitewashed the fence all round, and 
the barn and coal-house, and chicken house, and all. We have paint- 
the gates a lovely red, and striped the greenhouse, and Carl wanted to 
stripe the calf with the same color, as a meandering ornament to the 
lawn, but he couldn't catch him. I have planted out Madeira vines 
and Virginia creepers and tomato plants, and we have declared war 
against the English sparrows that destroy more strawberries than we^ 
get. We will have things fixed up when the maternal comes home. 
I reckon she will come sometime — come home spoiled like I do as 
when I take a trip off and am petted up by genial friends. It will 
take us a week to get her back in the harness, but it won't take her 
half that long to get us back. We've got two picnics on hand, and a 
fishing frolic, and there are five pretty girls from Cement coming here 
tonight, and on the whole I don't think I am as lonesome as I think 
I am. 

"So here's a health to her who's away." 



The Farm and The Fhieside. 285 



CHATPER LVIII. 



Up Among Tiie Stars. 

I was talking to the children the other night about astronomy, and I 
said: **I am a traveler — a great traveler. I have traveled forty 
thousand million of miles in my life. I was born traveling. I can 
beat railroads and telegraphs. When I travel I make 68,000 miles an 
hour, and don't exert myself a bit. I can make over 1,500,000 miles 
in a day, and turn a summerset 8,000 miles high in the bargain — 
I turn one every day when I am on the road. I traveled nearly 600,- 
000,000 miles last year." 

And so I made the children figure it all up so as to impress upon 
them ihe immensity of space and the mighty power of God. I know 
an old man — a lawyer — who didn't believe in any of these things. 
He said it was not according to scripture. He didn't believe the earth 
was round or that it turned over. He said the scriptures spoke of the 
ends of the earth, and the four corners of the earth, and that Joshua 
commanded the sun to stand still just like he did the moon, and they 
both stood still. We used to argue with him, and tell him that nav- 
igators had sailed all around the earth, but it was no use, and we gave 
him up. 

I know lots of sensible people who don't believe that astronomers 
know anything about these immense distances and orbits and weights 
of the planets. They say it is all guess work, pretty much, and that 
it is impossible to tell how far it is from one place to another, or one 
planet to another without measuring it with a chain or a rod-pole or 
a string or something. And here is where a higher education comes 
in and broadens the mind and elevates it to a higher plane. There is 
no science so exact and so fully established as astronomy. The dis- 
tance from here to Atlanta is not so. accurately known as the earth's 
orbit around the sun. A great astronomer like Herschel or Newton 
or La Place can look through the telescope at Jupiter's moons when 



286 The Farm and The Fireside. 

they are in an eclipse, and then mix up a few logorithms and fluxions 
and parallaxes and tell how fast light travels and how far it is to the 
remotest planet in the universe. 

The children wanted to know why the new year began with Janu- 
ary, and I couldent tell them. Christmas would have been a better 
day. The new era should have begun with the birth of Christ 
instead of a week later ; or the year should begin with the birth of 
"spring — the 21st of March — when nature is putting on new garments. 
Those old philosophers got things awfully mixed up anyhow. Their 
years used to be measured by the moon, and they had thirteen 
months, but that dident fit, and so they fell back to ten months of 
thirty-six days each, and that dident fit, and next they put in two 
more months and had no leap year, and at last Pope Gregory fixed 
the measure all right — just as we have it now. It was only in the 
last century that the civilized nations adopted the new time. Russia 
hasent adopted it yet; but I don't know whether she is civilized 
or not. 

January was a right good name for the first month. He was a 
watchful old fellow and had two faces, and could look before him and 
behind him at the same time. It is a good idea for a man to look 
back over the year that has gone and review his conduct, and then 
look forward and promise to do better. But most of the months were 
named for heathen gods who never existed, and so were the days of 
the week. I wish the school children would read about them and be 
able to answer what March means, and April and Wednesday and 
Thursday, and the other names. Gather knowledge as you go along 
— useful knowledge — and store it away. If you havent got the books 
borrow them from somebody and read. I asked two young men yes- 
terday how far it was to the sun, and they had no idea. 

1891! There is a meaning in those figures. Every time they are 
written on a letter head or a ledger or a bank check or a note or a 
hotel register, or printed on a newspaper, they mean something. The 
pens of Christians and infidels and skeptics and agnostics and Jews 
and Gentiles are all writing it visible and indelible upon the paper. 
Every day, every hour, every minute, it is being written all over the 
world, and every mark establishes a fact — a great fact — that 1891 
years ago there was a birth — a notable birth — and old Father Time 
began a new count and called it Anno Domini. What a wonderful 



The Farm and The Fireside. 287 

•event it must have been that closed the record of the agres and started 
time on a new cycle. How in the world did it happen ? The Greeks 
had their calendar and the Romans had theirs, and the Jews had one 
that was handed down by Moses, but all of them were overshadowed 
by the one that a handful of Christians set up, and for 1400 years the 
Anno Domini has given a date to every birth and death and event in 
the civilized world. It seems to me that if I was an infidel I would 
not place these figures at the top of my letters. I would not dignify 
the birth of a child that way ; I would rather write 5894 as the date 
of the creation. But, no, if I did not credit Moses and the prophets, 
I couldent choose that date, and so I would have no date — no era to 
begin with. The Greeks had their Olympiads to date from, and the 
Romans the birth of their ancient city, and the Mohammedans the 
flight of Mohamet, but a modern agnostic has nothing. If he was an 
American, I suppose he might begin with the Declaration of Independ- 
ence, and say January 114. The Jew is better off, for he has a faith 
— a faith as strong as the ages — and his era goes back to Moses and 
the prophets, but even he has to conform to the Anno Domini of the 
Christian in all his business relations with mankind. If he was to 
date a business letter or make out a bill of goods according to his faith 
it would be returned to him for explanations. What a wonderful 
thing is this date — these four simple figures. We write them and write 
them, but we seldom ponder on what they prove. 

On New Year's night I was talking to the children about these 
things, and about the long journey we had taken since the last New 
Year. We have gotten back to the same place in the universe and 
have traveled nearly three hundred million of miles. Talk about 
your cannon ball trains and your lightning express ! Why, we have 
been ru^ining a schedule of thirty thousand miles an hour and never 
stopped for coal or water, and never had a jostle nor put on a brake 
nor greased a wheel. Other trains have crossed our track, and we 
have crossed theirs, but there was no danger signal, no sign board, no 
red flag, no watchman. Was there ever an engineer so reckless of 
human life? Fifteen hundred millions of passengers aboard, and 
they sleep half the time. Did ever passengers ride so trustingly? 
And what is more wonderful still, our train has a little fun on the 
way, and every day turns a summersault twenty-five thousand miles 
round just for the enjoyment and health of the passengers. Turns 



288 The Farm and The Fireside. 

over as it goes, turns at a speed of a thousand miles an hour and never 
loses an inch of space or a moment of time. Wouldn't it be big fua 
if we could stand off away from the train and see it roll on and turn 
as it rolled and see the passengers all calm and serene? It seems to 
me that if I was an infidel or an agnostic I would want to get oft this 
train — a train without an engineer — a train that has got loose from 
somewhere and is running wild at the rate of 500 miles a minute. Talk 
about your Pullman sleepers and vestibule and dining-room cars ! 
Why, this train carries houses and gardens and fruit trees and every- 
thing good to eat. It is a family train, and the family goes along 
with their nabors and the preacher and the doctor and the graveyard 
is carried along, too, so that if anybody dies on the way the train 
don't have to stop for a funeral. It is well that it don't, for the 
passengers are dying at the rate of a hundred a minute, and the traia 
would never get anywhere if it had to stop to bury the dead. 

Then we children got to talking about the centuries away back, 
when the months and the years were unsettled, and nobody seemed to 
know how long a year was or how to divide it ; when the changes of 
the moon were a bigger thing than going round the sun; when there 
were only ten months in a year, and a year was only 360 days, and so 
January kept falling back until it got to be summer instead of winter ; 
when there were no weeks, except among the Jews, and the month 
was divided by the Greeks and Romans into three decades of ten days 
each ; when Julius Cissar tried to regulate the calendar and made' 
the year 365 days and gave a leap year of 366. But that didn't work 
exactly right, for it made leap year eleven minutes too long, and so, 
as the centuries rolled on, it was found in 1582 that old Father Time 
had gained twelve days on himself, or on the sun or something else, 
and Pope Gregory concluded to set the old fellow back a peg or two, 
and he did. If a pope could make us all twelve days younger when 
he pleased to do it he would be a very popular man, I reckon. But 
the calendar is all right now, and the civilized world has adopted it. 
It is eleven minutes fast every four years, but as the year 1900 is not 
to be a leap year the gain will be canceled when that year comes Leap 
year used to double the sixth day of March instead of adding a day 
to February, and so it was called the bis-sextile year. It is well for 
the children to know these things for they are worth knowing. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 289 



CHAPTER LIX. 



Oh! These Wome?j! 

Oh, these women, these women — they make me so tired. But it is 
a sweet service. Here I've been working in the harness for forty 
years, and I don't reckon I would be happy if the harness was off. I 
I know I wouldn't for sometimes when Mrs. Arp goes off to spend the 
day I don't feel natural about the house. I want somebody to order 
me around in a sweet, feminine way: "William, that stick that was 
between the sash has fallen out and is down there on the ground — 
don't you feel the cool air coming in ? William, the clock needs clean- 
ing very bad — it stopped twice yesterday — hadn't you better take it 
down to Mr. Baker's ? William, I wish you would get a little paint 
and give the old mantlepiece a coat — you have scraped so many 
matches on it to light your old pipe that it is a sight. A little can of 
prepared paint won't cost much. And that old grate needs a coat of 
polish — oh ! I did see some of the loveliest grates down at the exposi- 
tion, and those tiles for hearths were exquisite. I don't mean for you 
to buy any, but I am just telling you. Somehow, whenever I tell you 
about the beautiful things I see, you look like you didn't have a. friend 
in the world. Of course I don't mean that I want you to buy them. 
William, what am I do with the flowers — the geraniums, and ver- 
benas, and all the potted plants ? The winter is coming on, and I do 
wish we had a little pit somewhere. It will be a pity to lose them. 
Hattie has had a pit dug, and says it didn't cost but two dollars — and 
she is going to cover it with a cloth frame. Sam Pitts digs pits," 
she continued — "Sam Pitts digs pits," said I. And so I sent for 
Uncle Sam and marked off the place, six by ten, and squared it 
according to rule, and he had been digging a few minutes when Mrs. 
Arp raised the window and said she thought it was a little too far that 
way, and so I moved the marks a couple of feet and began to dig 
again. In a little while she came out and said it was too far this way, 



290 The Farm and The Fireside. 

and 80 I moved it back where it was at first, and she said it was about 
right now. She thinks that I split the difference, but I didn't. The 
next day she asked me in a gentle voice how much a brick wall around 
the top would cost — a brick wall about three feet high on one side and 
a foot high on the other. ** And sash- with glass for a cover," said I, 
for I knew she was thinking about it. She smiled sweetly and said : 
"Yes." I scratched a match on the mantle and lit my pipe and 
ruminated. That was yesterday. Mr. White is making those sash today, 
and the brick mason is building the wall, and I am still in the harness. 
Alek Stephens said he wanted to die in the harness, and he did ; but he 
never knew anything about matrimonial breeching, or he would have 
wanted to live and not die at all. What would become of a man if 
he didn't have a woman to keep him lively? When we were in 
Atlanta the other day, my wife asked me for five dollars to buy a pair 
of shoes. "Have shoes gone up ?" said I, as I handed her the money. 
No, but I have," she said — "I want a fine pair — shoes that are as soft 
as kid gloves ; you owe me lots of shoe money ; you promised me before 
we were married that you would give me thirteen pair a year — don't 
you remember?" "Yes," said I, "and you have had them and more 
too. How can a woman raise ten children on less than thirteen pair a 
year ? But I would have promised you anything then. I would have 
climed the Chamborazo mountains and fought a tiger for you then — a 
small tiger — but I would fight a big one now. Here, take another 
five and buy you some fine stockings to go with the shoes, but don't 
buy black ones. I despise to see a white woman wear black stockings. 
It is like a heathen Chinee blacking his teeth." I wish I had the 
making of the fashions. I see that the bustles have gone out at last, 
and I am glad of it — I never did like these unnatural humps on a 
woman's back. They have been in and out a dozen times since I was 
a boy, and so have hoop-skirts. It is funny to see a new fashion come 
in and go out. There are women in my town still wearing bustles. 
They feel sorter shamed to leave them off all of a sudden. But they 
will fall into line and slim down before long. They have done 
slimmed at my house. They keep up pretty well. I saw lots of nice 
ladies at the fair who were behind, and so were their bustles, but they 
were from the country and little towns, and hadent caught up. It is 
a good deal of trouble to alter a bustle-dress to a no-bustle-dress, and 
all the mysterious garments underneath have to be altered, too, and 



The Farm and The FmESiDE. 291 

that is why it takes a fashion so long to run out. It costs money and 
work. Now, if the ladies will cut off about four inches of their skirts 
and keep out of the winter's mud, they will be all right. Let them 
show their ankles if they want to. There is nothing prettier than the 
poetry of motion that is in a lady's foot and ankle when she walks. 
It pleases an old man mightily. 

But the men have passed through some very ridiculous fashions, 
too. When I was in my teens and had begun to notice the girls and 
put oil on my hair and cinnamon drops on my handkerchief, the fash- 
ion was to wear short pants and straps — leather straps about an iuch 
wide that came under the shoe and fastened to buttons sewed on the 
inside of the pants. When a feller sat down the whole concern was 
drawn as tight as an eelskin, and there was a continual strain on the 
straps at the bottom and the suspenders at the top. Sometimes 
a button broke or a strap bursted under peculiar circumstances, and 
then the pants crawled up amazingly. One day I was riding out with 
my sweetheart and the catastrophe happened as we were running a 
galloping race up a long hill, and my pants crawled up to my knees 
and carried the undergarments along, and it was on her side of the 
horse, and she laughed and laughed until she liked to have fell off, 
and I had to get down and cut a skewer off of a rail and fasten the 
strap on again. The mischievous thing told it on me, and I never got 
even with her until one day her bustle came untied and dropped off 
as she was passing my store, and I picked it up and handed it to her 
with a bow as polite as a Frenchman, and said: Miss Mary, 
your shoe-strap is broken." The bustles of that day were shaped like 
a new moon and stuffed with bran. They were generally about as large 
as a hoe-handle and tapered out to a point at each end, but the more 
style the bigger the bustle. They were all home-made and were con- 
sidered a very sacred and mysterious article of feminine furniture. 
Sometimes one of these big ones would rip from long wear and tear, 
and the bran would leak out as the woman wiggled along, and you 
could track her all the way home just like the hogs would track a 
mill boy when there was a hole in his corn sack. I remember when 
the hoop-skirt of a high-flying woman was three feet across at the bot- 
tom, and when she stood up close ♦against the counter, her dress didn't 
need any shortening behind. It was a sight of trouble to squeeze 
them in the pews of the churches, and sometimes they behaved in a 



292 The Farm and The Fireside. 

very unseemly manner when the wind was blowing in a shifty way, 
I remember when the college boys wore boots according to their poli- 
tics. The toes were shaped like a duck's bill, and were turned up and 
over on top of the foot like a skate, and if the boy was a whig he had 
Clay printed on the toes in large letters, and if he was a democrat he 
had Polk printed there, and so they walked about sticking their poli- 
tics into everybody's faces. 

But after all, I believe the women of this generation are more 
reasonable in their dress than for many generations past. Three 
thousand years ago they were fast, very fast, for Josiah tells about 
*Hhe bravery of their tinkling ornaments about their feet and their 
cauls and their round tires like the moon (bustles, I reckon), their 
chains and bracelets and mufflers, the bonnets and ornaments of the 
legs and headbands, and tablets and earrings, and nose jewels and 
changeable suits of apparel, and the mantles and wimples, and crisp- 
ing pins and hoods and vails." Oh, it took a sight to set up one of 
those high-flying Hebrew women, and the prophet went for them as 
fiercely as old Allen Turner used to go for our women a half century 
ago. "If that young woman with the green bonnet on the back of 
her head and the devil's martingales around her neck and his stirrups on 
her ears don't quit her giggling, I'll point her out to the congrega- 
tion." Yes, we are all doing better — except some. But I must stop; 
Mrs. Arp is calling me to come and put out some more chrysanthe- 
mums, and I'm so tired. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 293 



CHAPTER LX. 



The Mischievous Little Ones. 

There is a wide difference between mischief and meanness. But 
mischief is close akin to it, when it injures anybody or hurts their 
feelings, or breaks the rules or the laws. Most all boys love a little 
mischief. I used to love a good deal. I remember when we thought 
it ever so smart to slip around at night and change the gates and the 
signs, or stretch a rope across the sidewalk, or tie a goat in the school 
house, or put one man's horse in another man's stable. I have worked 
mighty hard at such things, and I did think it was just as funny as it 
could be, but somehow or other I don't see a bit of fun in it now. I 
wonder what is the matter with me. My children inherited mischief, 
I reckon, and so I have to excuse them, but when my little girl 
thoughtlessly pulled the chair away just as I was about to sit down, 
and I came down with a shock that jarred the house, and my feet flew 
up and knocked the lamp off^ the table, I was mad, very mad, until 
I looked at her and saw how frightened she was, for she hadn't counted 
on such a catastrophe. So I tempered down and picked up the broken 
fragments and never said a word, and it was a minute before anybody 
spoke. Mrs. Arp was the first to break the awful silence with an 
explosion of laughter, and that started the children, of course — all 
but Jessie, poor little little thing, who come to me and said: "Papa, 
I didn't mean to do it." I knew that she didn't, but my offended 
dignity was at stake, and I got me another lamp and went to writing. 
1 wanted to laugh as much as they did, but I wouldn't. That was 
four years ago, and Mrs. Arp is not done laughing at it yet whenever 
it is alluded to. I believe it would do her good to see me bump the 
floor and kick over a lamp about once a week. 

I was ruminating about this because my boy came home from school 
ahead of time and sat down ^efore the fire looking solemn and sad. I 
was writing by the window and wondered what was the matter. For ' 



294 The Farm and The Fireside. 

awhile he never moved or spoke, but suddenly he looked up at me 
and said, in a pitiful voice: *'Papa, was you ever suspended?" 
''Suspended?" said I. "I don't understand you — suspended how?" 
''Suspended from school," said he. ''Why, no," said I. "What 
makes you ask that question?" He choked up, and said: "Well, 
I'm suspended, and so is Tom Milner." "Is it possible?" said I, as I 
laid down my pen. "What have you been doing?" 

Then he told as how he and Tom had got to throwing water at each 
other while the professor was in the other room, and how he missed 
Tom and the whole dipper full struck the blackboard and put out the 
sum and ran down upon the floor, and the professor came in just at 
the wrong time and asked who did it, and suspended him and Tom 
and told them to take their books and go home. I felt greatly 
relieved, of course, for I saw that it was mischief and not meanness, 
but I never said anything and looked solemn and resumed my writing. 
Now, it distresses my children to see me distressed, and that is a good 
sign. As long as a boy loves his parents, and is troubled when they 
are troubled, there is hope of that boy. After awhile he said : "Papa, 
what must I do about it?" "I don't know," said I, "until I see the 
professor. Not long ago we had up a case of suspension, and the 
board refused to take the boy back. I don't know what they 
will do with you and Tom. I expect you have been trying the pro- 
fessor's patience for some time. You are not bad boys and are very 
good scholars, but your disposition to mischief has troubled him and 
set a bad example. The other boys are talking about you, and say 
that the professor is partial to you and Tom, and I'm afraid that he is; 
I am glad that he has stopped your mischief." 

But it came out all right. The boys were not suspended, and they 
went back the next morning and apologized, and now everything is 
calm and serene. The boys must conform to the rules. If one boy 
throws water, all the boys have the right to throw water, and that 
wouldent do, and a sensible boy knows it. Let every boy act upon 
principle. They may be tempted to tell a story to get out of a little 
scrape. But it is better to tell the truth. The truth is the thing — 
the biggest thing I know ot If I had a great business that would 
give employment to a thousand boys, and I had to go about and select 
them, the first question I would ask woi|ld be, "Does he always tell 
the truth ?" I wish the boys and girls could realize how much anxiety 



The Farm and The Fireside. 295 

\ 

they give us. Here are 400 going to school iu our little town, and in 
a few years they have got to take our places and make the laws and 
do the business and make up society and establish the morals of the 
community, and upon their conduct the happiness and good name of 
the people will depend. The young men of this generation will have 
to solve the race problem and all the other problems, and upon them, 
will depend the existence of the government. We think about this a 
good deal for it effects our children and grandchildren. It troubles us 
to think about wars and anarchy and revolution, and about tyrants and 
bad men getting into power, and about the rich getting richer and the 
poor poorer. I know that it will be all right if the people will do 
right — ^if the children grow up with good morals and good principles. 
We have got good schools almost everywhere in the South. I know 
we have in Cartersville. I am proud of the professors and the teach- 
ers and the pupils. We are a long ways ahead of Boston. There are 
no . hip pockets in our schools, no kicking of teachers, no bands of 
forty thieves. We have Christian teachers and the moral training 
goes right along with the school books. The boy or girl who gets no 
more education than can be had in our schools has the foundation laid 
for any beginner iu life. 

St. Valentine's day has come again and the good old fellow does 
seem to have some influence upon the bipeds, for our young people 
are mating and marrying all around us. That is all right, and we 
love to see it going on, for it is according to nature. Most everybody 
takes some stock in the marriages of the young folks. Even the old 
bachelors and old maids wake up and smile and bid them good speed. 
They are taking a great risk, we know, but it is best to take it, even 
if the venture is a failure. If it is a failure, it is their fault. I never 
knew an unhappy marriage that was not made so by one or both of 
the parties. It is a sad thing to marry in haste and repent at leisure. 
It don't pay to marry by the month. I never hear of hasty and 
inconsiderate marriages but what I think of those sad and serioup 
lines of Tom Hood: 

" Oh very, very dreary is the room 

Where love, domestic love, no longer nestles; 
But smitten by the common stroke of doom, 
The corpse lies on the trestles." 



296 The Farm and The Fireside. 

/ 

The corpse of conjugal love is an awful corpse. Not long ago a 
married woman asked me for $10. She said her husband had money, 
but she wouldn't ask him for a dollar if she never got any. There is 
a corpse in that house. The husband is stingy and tyranical — the 
wife is proud and sensitive, and so love got sick soon after the mar- 
riage and lingered and languished and died. A man ought not to 
force his wife to ask him for money. It does humiliate a woman. It 
makes her feel her helplessness, her dependence, and smothers her 
equality. The husband ought to anticipate her wants if he is able. 
The money or the bank account ought to be at her disposal at all 
times, for she will spend less of it foolishly than he will. A very con- 
siderate wife told me that it was her greatest trial to ask her husband 
for money, though he was always kind and never refused. And I sus- 
pect there is many a good wife who is humiliated in the same way. It 
is St. Valentine's season now, and a fit time for the married folks to 
mate again and renew their promises. What a pity that love should 
get sick so soon and turn into a corpse — a corpse that cannot be 
buried but stays in the house by day and by night. From such a 
corpse, good Lord deliver us. 



The Fakm and The Fireside. 297 



CHAPTER LXI. 



Thoughts on Spring and Love. 

*'Hail, gentle spring!" saith the poet. She didn't hail Lut she 
snowed and sleeted a little. Another poet says: ** Winter lingers in 
the lap of spring." The old rascal keeps on lingering there — he likes 
the place. I wish the gentle maiden would shove him off and tell 
him to go. She seems to like his caresses — I haven't seen an alder tag 
nor red maple ear drop this year. It is time for the dogwood to bloom 
and the wild violets to peep out from their wintry beds, and the min- 
nows to play in the branches, and the lambs to shake their new-born 
tails. Every few days the robins come and the bluebirds sit longingly 
on the broken cornstalks, but they don't stay long. The plum-tree blooms 
look sickly, and the peach bud don't know whether to venture out or 
not. Spring poets are languishing and, languishing do live, and all 
nature seems waiting and wishing for the grass to spring, and the flow- 
ers tu bloom, and the birds to sing, and the voice of the turtle dove to 
be heard in the land. 

It is now five long weeks since the good St. Valentine told the birds 
to mate and the girls and boys to go wooing. St. Patrick has been 
out and shook his shelalah at the snakes, but still gentle Spring keeps 
on flirting and fooling with old man Winter and makes him believe 
she is in love with him. But she isent. May and December never 
mate, nor March and November. It is against the order of nature. 
We old people can look and linger and admire, but that is all. We 
have sailed down the river and encountered its perils, its reefs and 
rocks and shoals and quicksands, but, strange to say, we give no warn- 
ing. Maybe it is because we know that warning will do no good; 
maybe, because misery loves company; maybe, because it is the order 
of nature, the fiat of the Almighty. Verily, the young people would 
mate and marry and launch their boat and sail down that river if they 
knew there was a Scylla and Charybdis at every bend and leviathans 



298 The Farm and The Fireside. 

and malestroms and cataracts all the way down. Poor, trusting, suf-- 
fering woman. What perils, what trials, what afflictions does the 
maternal instinct bring upon you! Close by us, while I write, is a 
beautiful young mother lingering in the grasp of death — dying that 
her first-born child may live. There is nothing more touching, more 
pitiful, more heroic in nature. There is nothing that a man is called 
upon to endure that compares with the death of a mother in child- 
birth. 

But there is a brighter side — a more charming, comforting picture 
of life — married life, domestic life — when the good mother is a 
matron, and looks with pride upon her children and grandchildren as 
they come and go lovingly before her. What calm serenity hovers 
over her matronly face. What sweet content, what grateful rest — 
rest from her labors, her pains, her care and anxiety. Well may she 
exclaim with Paul : ' ' I have fought a good fight ; I have kept the 
faith; I have finished my course. Henceforth there is laid up for me 
a crown of righteousness." 

To every lad and lassie there is a period of life not always thrilling 
or tragical, but highly emotional and sensational. Of course, I mean 
the period of love — young love — or loves young dream, which some- 
times runs smooth and sometimes don't. What a luxury it would be 
to look behind the curtain and see just what love has felt and suffered 
and enjoyed. Such a kaleidoscope would have a world of eager lookers, 
for the old are as fascinated with stories of love and courtship as the 
middle-aged and young. In looking over the daily or weekly paper 
we may skip the displayed headings of war in Bulgaria or riots in 
London or murders in Wyoming, but any little paragraph that has 
love in it, arrests the eye and demands attention. Children go to school 
to study books, but by the time they are in their teens they begin to 
mix a little timid, cautious love with their other studies. A sweet- 
heart is a blessed thing for a boy. It straightens him up and washes 
his face and greases his hair and brushes his teeth and stimulates his 
ambition to excel and be somebody. Jerusalem! How I did luxuriate 
and palpitate and concentrate towards the first little school girl I ever 
loved. She was as pretty as a pink and as sweet as a daisy, and one 
day at recess, when nobody was looking, I caught her on the stairs 
and kissed her. She was dreadfully frightened, but not mad. Oh no, 
not mad. She ran away with blushes on her cheek, and more than 



The Farm and The Fireside. 299 

once that evening I saw her glance at me from behind her book and 
wondering if I would ever be so rash again. 

And now, Mr. Editor, if a thousand of your patrons peruse these 
random memories, nine hundred of them can finish up the chapter 
from their own unwritten book. Who has not loved, who has not 
stolen a kiss, who has not caught its palpitating thrill and felt like 
Jacob when he lifted up his voice and wept. Oh, Rachel, beautiful 
and well favored, no wonder that Jacob watered thy sheep and then 
kissed thee, for there was no one to molest or make thee afraid. That 
memorable kiss is now 4,000 years old, and has passed into history as 
classic and pure, but I have had them, and so have you, dear reader, 
just as sweet and soul-inspiring, and never said anything about it to 
anybody. Ours' was a mixed school, and every Friday the larger boys 
and girls had to stand up in a line and spell and define. My sweet- 
heart stood head most generally, and so I was stimulated to get next 
to her, and I did, and my right hand slyly found her left, and we both 
were happy. But time and circumstances separated us, and we both 
found new loves — she married another feller and was content, and so 
did I, but neither of us have forgotten the stolen kiss or that tender 
childish love that made our school-days happy. But love becomes 
more earnest after awhile — more intense, more frantic — the young 
man means business and so does the maiden. Like the turtle-doves 
in the spring of the year, they are looking around for a mate. This is 
nature, and it is right. God said, "It is not good for man to be 
alone; I will make a helpmeet for him." And so he made Eve to 
help meet the expenses, and that is what a wife ought to do now, but 
a good many of them don't. They help make them, but they don't 
help meet them, and that is why the young men have almost quit 
marrying. The rich girls won't have them, and the poor girls are 
trying to keep up with the rich, and so the turtle-doves mate slowly 
now-a-days. Folks need to love and court and marry with more alac- 
rity than they do now. It is not vanity to say that I could have 
married half a dozen nice girls, and my wife could have had choice 
of a dozen clever, prosperous youths as likely as myself. Cupid just 
roosted all around those woods and shot his arrows right and left. 
Sometimes he shoots a young man and then waits days and weeks 
before he shoots the girl he is after. This keeps the poor fellow on 
the warpath, and frantic and rampant, and Cupid laughs. But he 



300 The Farm and The Fireside. 

was clever to me, for as near as I can judge, he let fly both arrows at 
once and plugged my girl and me simultaneously, and with a center 
shot. My wife denies this, but I have told it so often I believe it. 
There was no skirmishing on my part. I never did shoot with a scat- 
tering gun. Marrying was cheap in those days. My recollection is 
that it cost me only about forty-five dollars — twenty-five for clothes, 
ten for a ring and ten more to the preacher. It didn't cost anybody 
else anything to speak of, for there were no wedding presents. That 
tomfoolery wasent invented. We didn't go to Niagara, or anywhere 
right away, but we went to work. A month or so later, we did take a 
little trip to Tallulah Falls and look at the water tumble over the 
rocks, but that didn't cost but a few dollars and made no sensation 
outside the family. My thoughtful wife had enough nice clothes to 
last her two years when I married her, and they were long afterwards 
cut up and cut down for the children and there are some precious frag- 
ments hid away in the old trunk now. The old trunk, and of com- 
mon size, was sufficient then for a traveling wardrobe for a lady of the 
land. My father and mother and two children made a journey by sea 
to Boston with one trunk and a valise, and came back to Georgia by 
land, in a carriage; but not long since I saw a delicate female travel- 
ing with two trunks four times as large, and ribbed with iron, and 
fastened with three massive locks, and still she was not happy. Oh, 
my country! That girl was too much in love with her clothes to love 
a man, and nobody but a fortune-hunter would dare to marry her. 
Young man, beware of trunks! 



The Farm and The Fuieside. 301 



CHAPTER LXII. 



Bill Arp Plays Ringmaster. 

Mrs. Arp was quietly reading The Constitution yesterday while 
the children were out doors. After awhile she paused, and looking 
over her spectacles at me, remarked : '' I thought that maybe you would 
have mentioned that little circumstance about the buggy and the ring- 
master in one of your letters, but I suppose it does not seem to you to 
be very interesting matter to write about. Probably if the horse had 
run away with me, the public would have heard of it." And with that 
she resumed her reading. Well, that's a fact. I was thinking that 
the less said about some things the better ; and besides, as I told her, 
I didn't want to make a hero of myself in such a small transaction. 
She quietly replied: *'0h, no, of course not; but I didn't think 
there was very much hero about it, and thought you could mention 
it in a small way without any particular peril — just to fill up, you 
know." So I reckon I had better tell it. 

It was her buggy. One of her boys bought it and gave it to her. 
It had a nice top, and a phaeton shaped body that she could get into 
so easy, and the harness were hers, and the whip. Everything was 
new and nice, and she had taken but two rides in it, and so one day I 
hinted that I would like to see how it meandered over the country, 
and as it was all agreeable, I had my young horse hitched in, and sailed 
around smartly. We had worked that horse in the wagon and in the 
plow, and considered him pretty well broke, for he came from gentle 
stock, and we had raised him and petted him, and so had no fears 
about his behavior. One of the girls had been riding with me, and I 
let her get out at the front gate and drove on up to the big farm gate 
at the top of the hill, and opened it and led the black rascal through, 
and I thought he was serene, and knew he was tired, and so I just stepped 
back for a moment to shut the gate, and away he went like he was 
shot out of a gun. He run down to the horse lot gate all right, and I 



302 The Farm and The Fireside. 

thought would surely stop there; but finding the gate shut, he took a. 
little roundance and went sailing down towards the spring, and jumped 
over a big log, and the buggy jumped too, for it was doing its level 
best to keep up, and then he took the grand rounds of the hillside 
grove, and every time I tried to head and catch him he dodged me, 
and kept on with the buggy, sometimes on four wheels and sometimes 
on two. I had the whip in my hand, and Mrs. Arp, my wife, says 
that when she came to the back door to see what was the racket, I was 
standing there with the whip a- waving, and looked for all the world 
like a ring master in a circus, and she actually thought I was making 
the colt run round just for my own amusement. Well, there's no use 
in making a long story of it now, for what's done can't be helped. 
That colt tore that buggy all to pieces, and got away from it b sfore he 
quit trying. He run it against three trees and over four logs, and left 
the beautiful top in one place and the wheels in another, and the 
shafts got bent backwards underneath the running gear, and I can't 
tell to this day how they got there. 

I walked into the house and said nothing for ten minutes, and I 
didn't want anybody to say anything to me. Mrs. Arp never said 
nothing, either, but set down to her sewing just as natural, and sorter 
hummed a piece of a tune. After a spell she looked over at my side 
of the house, and remarked : 

*'It was a very pleasant evening for your ride." 

*' Uncommon," said I. 

"I expect it will be good for your rheumatism for you to take a 
ride every evening," said she. 

"They say that walking is better for rheumatism than riding,' 
said I. 

"Well, you will have a good chance for that now," said she; and 
she laid down her work and laughed at me — and that's the way she 
broke me of the pouting melancholy. And that's always the way. 
AVhen I am distressed and low down, she is all serene and lively and 
cheers me up. Fact is, she gave me such comfort about that buggy 
business that I am almost glad it happened. But still I am sorter 
sore about that ring master part of it, and then again, I overheard the 
children asking Ralph if he wasn't glad that it wasn't him. And 
Ralph said, "Goodness gracious! I wouldn't have had it happened to 
me for a hundred dollars." 



The Farm and The Fireside. 303 

Well, it is not so bad as it might have been, for I might have been 
in it and had my wheels and my body and springs all tore up. It 
will cost about twenty dollars to repair the damage, and she says she 
will pick it up in the road, or get it somehow, and that I mustn't be 
bothered. 

I was telling my nabor Buford about it yesterday as a great calamity, 
and he laughed and said: *' All we country folks are used to those 
things and a heap worse. Why," says he, *'it was only yesterday 
morning that I and my brother Alf concluded to go to town, creek or 
no creek, for we knew it was up mighty high, and so weiook round- 
ance for a shallower ford up at Bradley's, and in we went all right till 
we got to the little deep swimming place, and the horse gave a lunge 
to jump that and popped the single-tree, and away he went out of the 
shafts and broke loose the hip straps and got to bank; but me and Alf 
was in the buggy trying to hold it down, and as I leaned over to catch 
my overcoat that was floating away, the buggy just careened over and 
spilt us both in the water, and it turned over on us, and Alf grabbed holt 
of one wheel and I of another, and we tried to hold it, but we had got 
into a sort of a whirlpool that was over our heads, and the box body 
just turned round and round and over and under, and sometimes we 
were on top and sometimes the buggy was on top, and we see-sawed 
that way and thingemajigged down the creek for a hundred and fifty 
yards, and had finally to let go and swim for the bank. If you ever 
saw drowned rats we were them, and we were so tired and so surprised 
we just set there on the bank and looked at one another and smiled, 
but the smiles were faint and sickly. I followed on down the creek 
and found my overcoat hung on a haw bush, and had to swim in to get 
it, but my best shoes were gone for good, and my shawl and some other 
things that were upon the seat and under it. Well, now, you see, the 
body got broke aloose and went off, and the wheels and running gear 
are down in Bishop's mill pond. But we got the horse home, and no 
lives lost or limbs broken, and are thankful. Alf and I walked home 
bare headed, and we went a half mile out of the way to keep anybody 
from seeing us. Our clothes weighed mighty nigh a hundred pounds, 
besides the overcoat, and we left a wet track behind us. Alf smiled 
again on the way, and says he: ' Oliver, I tell you what's a fact, folks 
oughtent to be e-xpecting too much good luck in this sm-struck world 
nohow, but there is always something good mixed up with the bad.' 



304 The Farm and The Fireside. 

'Well, J should like to know what good there is about- this?' said I. 
* Why, said he, ' we got such a good washing ; I reckon we are? about 
the cleanest folks in the settlement.' After while he smiled again, and 
looked at me and said: 'Well, the cyclone struck us and tore us up, 
and our fall oats are all killed, and now the high waters have over- 
flowed us. I wonder what is to be the next dispensation of Provi- 
dence. I reckon it's a good time to sing : 

* How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord.' " 

What a good thing it is to have on hand at all times a stock of 
resignation. How comforting is adversity. An old Latin poet tries 
to describe a perfect man, and says, among other things, that he must 
never get out of temper, nor live above or below a certain line of calm 
serenity. That will do pretty w ell for a man, I reckon, but it wouldent 
suit a woman at all. I heard a smart old man say once that a woman 
who didn't have temper, and show it now and then, was no account, for 
while a man ought to be a philosopher and go according to reason, a 
woman wasent made that way. She is full of emotions, and is bound 
to show them. She is up and down — now calm and now excited — 
according to circumstances. Her love is stronger, and her dislike more 
intense. She has more wonder and curiosity, more tenderness and 
tears, more sympathy and reverence and hope. In fact, she is a purer, 
better creation, and was made so because she was to be a mother and 
the nurse of children. 

"Her prentice hand she tried on man 
And then she made the lasses." 

I was talking to a nice lady one day about woman's rights, and she 
said that men and women both had too many rights now, and indulged 
themselves in some that dident belong to them. **For instance," said 
she, a * ' man has no right to be a fool, and no woman a right to be 
homely." "But how can she help it?" said I. **If a woman is born 
'ugly,' as we call it, it surely is not her fault." "Of course not," said 
she, "but if she is born that way, she mussent stay that way. She 
can be good if she wants to be, and she can be kind and entertaining, 
and that will make any woman pretty on intimate acquaintance. The 
homeliest woman I ever knew was the most fascinating and attractive. 
And just so the biggest dunce of a man can keep from being a fool if 
he tries to; at least he can be a silent one, and then folks wouldent 
find out he was a fool." 



The Farm and The FmEsmE. 305 



V 

CHAPTER LXIII. 



Doctors Turned Loose. 

Over 200 new doctors turned loose upon the country — 200 from 
Atlanta alone, and a big lot from Augusta, besides. I went down on 
Monday to see our boy graduate. His mother went, too, for she 
believes he is a natural-born doctor and can cure anybody of any- 
thing, whether he has got it or not. When he comes home she will 
get sick just for him to have a patient. Old Uncle Sam was com- 
plaining, and she told him to wait until her doctor came. She has 
confidence in his technical words, all mixed up with Latin and Greek 
and other foreign languages. And then, there is his diploma that is 
in Latin, and it was presented by Col. Hammond in a Latin speech. 
I suppose this dead language is used as a symbol of the doctor's work. 
Col. Hammond spoke in a grave tone of voice. He said that the 
prophet Jeremiah exclaimed, "Is there no balm in Gilead — is there 
no physician there ! " If he had lived in our day and witnessed the 
scene before us, he would not have asked that question concerning 
Atlanta. Here are eighty-six just made from one college. And he 
advised them all to emulate St. Luke, whom Paul called the beloved 
physician. Col. Hammond knows a power of Scripture, but he 
didn't mention King Asa, "who was diseased in his feet, and his 
disease was exceding great, yet he sought not the Lord, but sought 
physicians, and he slept with his fathers." Nor did he mention that 
"certain woman which had an issue of blood for twelve years, and 
had suffered many things of many physicians, and had spent all that 
she had, and was nothing better, but rather grew worse." Col. Ham- 
mond is an optimist, and looks on the bright side, and encouraged the 
young doctors. He looked at the beautiful bouquets that were sent 
upon the stage, and said: "Young gentlemen, these flowers are very 
beautiful and very appropriate for the occasion, but they are before 
you. Let your zeal, your study, your skill so inspire your professional 
life that you can look back and see flowers behind you. Flowers of 
praise and confidence from your patients and your patrons." 



306 The Farm and The Fireside. 

He then presented the doctors with their sheepskins and called each 
one by his Latin name, and some of them were so peculiar and 
unique they brought down the house, for John was Johannes, and 
William was Gulielmus, and Ralph was Radulphus. It reminded me 
of a lawsuit in a justice's court that happened a long time ago when 
Mark Blandford, who recently resigned from the bench of the 
Supreme Court, was a devilish young lawyer. A doctor sued a man for 
his medical bill of $15, and the man employed Mark to fight the case, 
for he said the doctor was no account and he discharged him. The 
doctor swore to his account, and Mark called for his license, or his 
diploma, and made the point that no doctor had a right to practice 
without one, and he read the law to the 'squire. And so the old 
'squire told the doctor to show his sheepskin. He said he had one at 
home, and asked for leave to go after it, It was just six miles to town, 
and he rode in a hurry, and returned all in a sweat of perspiration. 
With an air of triumph he handed it over to Mark and said: "Now, 
what have you got to say? " Mark unrolled it and saw that it was in 
Latin. The doctor's name was John Williamson Head, but the Latin 
made it Johannes Gulielmus, filius. Caput. That was enough for 
Mark. He made the point that it was not a diploma, but was an old 
land grant that was issued in old colony times to a man by the name 
of Caput. He said he had read about the Caputs, and one of their 
ancestors whose name was John Sebastian Caput, discovered America, 
and this land grant was a bounty from the king of Spain. The doc- 
tor raved furiously, but Mark stuck to it that there was no mention in 
the document of John William Head — that it was issued to one 
Johannes Gulielmus, filius. Caput — a very different person — and he 
asked the doctor to please to read the thing to the court. Of course 
the doctor couldn't do it and he lost his case. The old 'squire said that 
he didn't know whether it was a land grant or a diploma or a patent 
for some machine, and if the doctor couldn't read it, he wasent fitten to 
use it. And so I think those eighty -six doctors had better get Col. 
Hammond to translate their diplomas, and then learn the English by 
heart. 

Professor Lane gave the large audience a rare treat — a combination 
of wit and wisdom that only Charley Lane can make up. He rested 
his manuscript on an hour glass about four feet high, and all his seri- 
ous, scholarly thoughts were there, but ever and anon he stepped to 



The Farm and The Fireside. 307 

the front and illustrated his wisdom with humorous anecdotes that 
kept his hearers' eyes open, and their mouths too. He was hard down 
upon patent medicines, and told how Yacob Straus got up a nostrum 
and hired a fellow to certify: "This is to certify that I lost one of 
my eyes and two of my legs in the late war, and after using six bot- 
tles of Yacob Straus's medicine, my blind eye come again, and so did 
my legs." Openheimer had a drug store, too, and a patent medicine, 
and when he saw the certificate that Straus had gotten up, he hired a 
fellow to certify some, too: **I certify that I was unfortunately born 
without a liver or lights, and suffered untold miseries until I took four 
bottles of Openheimer's medicine, and now I have as good a liver as 
anybody and electric lights." 

Professor Lane advised the doctors to use common sense in their 
practice, and said it was not called common sense because it was com- 
mon, but because it was commonly needed. 

Then we had a beautiful valedictory by Dr. Park, and the presen- 
tation of medals by Rev. Dr. Anderson, and last of all the boys 
caned Dr. Johnston, and then the benediction closed the entertaining 
exercises. I was ruminating about these doctors — how many would 
succeed and how many wouldn't ; how many would take to drink and 
go to the bad ; how many would drift away from parental moorings 
and become agnostics, or skeptics, or infidels. I thought how much 
depended on their skill and kindness, and how the loves and hopes of 
fathers and mothers were centered in what the doctor could do for the 
child or some loved member of the family. They say that doctors 
get hardened to suffering. Maybe they do, but they ought not to. 
If I was a doctor, I would make a show of tenderness and sympathy 
whether I felt it or not. It goes a long ways with the sick and the 
suffering, and with the family. 

How much dejDCuds upon the doctor's skill in saving life can never 
be known, but a friend of mine in New York told me that a very 
eminent surgeon said to him some years ago : "lam responsible for 
Grover Cleveland's election. If it had not been for me he would have 
been defeated. That man Burchard who made the speech about 'Rum, 
Romanism and Rebellion,' was about to die from kidney disease. He 
sent for me as a last resort. I cut him open in the back and took his 
old republican kidney out and cleaned it and put it back again and 
sewed him up, and he got well and made that speech that drove the 



308 The Farm and The Fireside. 

Roman Catholics away from Blaine and elected Cleveland. Don't you 
see that if I had made a mistake in my diagnosis, or a mis-cut with 
my knife, Burchard would have died and Grover would have got 
left? Eh?" 

And there was that poor man Garfield, the President, whom the 
doctors killed. An eminent surgeon told me that he was probed to 
death. They hunted for the ball for three days, and bored new holes 
with their probes until he was lacerated all through, and for no good. 
He said that pistol balls did no harm to stay in a man ; that they 
became incysted, and it was better to let them alone than probe for 
them, and that the present practice in London and Paris was never to 
probe, but let nature go to work at once to heal the wound. Garfield 
would probably have lived if they hadn't probed him, and if he had 
lived Harrison wouldent have been president, don't you see? But we 
can't get along without the doctors. They are our comfort and our 
security by day and by night. They are our hope and our trust in 
times of afiiiction and peril. Then, hurrah for the new doctors! 
May they live long and prosper! It is a long ways to the goal of 
their ambition, but they must have patience if they would have 
patients. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 309 



CHAPTER LXIV. 



On Hailstorms, Etc. 

When all goes well humaDity is mightily inclined to be stuck up 
and consequential. Folks strut around aud put on airs as though 
they had created something, and were the lords of the land, aud dident 
ask favors of anything or anybody. I've seen rich folks sailing about 
in phaetons and looking serene and complacent and self-satisfied, and 
they seemed to have an idea that they made the gold and the silver 
and the bonds and the stocks, when the truth was they got it all by 
gouging and fudging and taking underholt; not all of them, but a 
good many. I've noticed that the rich men who made their money 
honestly are not the proudest folks in the world. It is generally the 
men who inherit riches who are the proudest ; folks who never 
earned an honest dollar in their lives. 

But I was thinking how brave and independent we all feel when 
there is nothing to scare us. Most anybody will talk big about ghosts 
and graveyards in the day time, or even at night when sitting by the 
family fireside. Most men are brave according to circumstances; 
they are brave when they have a chance for life, and they are 
brave when they have good backers. They are brave when they 
have time enough to see the danger beforehand and prepare 
for it. But they are all cowards when taken by surprise or over- 
whelmed all of a sudden by some terrible unusual thing, especially 
some power of nature that no man can contend with — cyclones and 
storms and earthquakes and thunder and lightning subdues a poor 
mortal quick and takes all the stiffning out of him. It was only yes- 
terday when the elements were on a rampage at my house, and the 
thunder pealed and the lightning played around, and black and angry 
clouds gathered over us, and darkness came before its time, aud the 
children all huddled up around us and looked wild, and the dogs came 
running from the field, and the first thing we knew somebody threw a 
white rock on the roof of the house and I saw it bounce and roll off 



310 The Farm and The Fireside. 

in the front yard, and while we were all wondering who did it a 
shower of them came down with a crashing noise, and we saw they 
were hail stones — stones sure enough — none of your coriander seed, 
but stones as large as walnuts, and some as large as guinea eggs, and 
they fell as thick and fast as rain drops on a mill pond. It wasent two 
minutes before the ground was as white as snow and the hail was 
bank'id up in piles in all the corners and low places. The sheep came 
running and bleating from the meadow, the horses made tracks for 
the stable, the chickens and ducks run under the house. Down, 
down it came stripping the fruit trees of their blooms and tearing the 
leaves off the euonimous bushes and mashing down the peas and 
onions and last, but not least, smashing through every pane of glass on 
the flower pit. The flowers were about half killed before, and now 
the wreck is all complete, and I've got work to do before Mrs. Arp 
comes home, so as to keep domestic affairs all calm and serene. The 
glass may go until next fall, for the plants needed ventilation anyhow, 
but I must get some more flowers and fill up the pots anew. 

Just about the time when the storm subsided and the children had 
begun to run about and gather the big round hail, I observed a way- 
faring man driving slowly down the hill and stop at my gate. He 
was humped over nearly double and had a long grizzly grey beard 
that looked demoralized, and his big broad-brimmed hat was all in a 
flop and hung down in wet scollops over his face and ears and the 
back of his neck. He stopped, but never said anything and looked 
like he didn't know where he come from nor whither he was going. 
After a minute, he ventured to raise one flop of his hat brim and 
looked up at me as I stood wondering on the piazza. He never called 
nor said good morning, but raised one arm and in a beseeching manner 
motioned me to come. I hurried down to his relief, and found it was 
my old friend, Col. Hutchinson, and as he looked piteously at me from 
under the flops, said: ** Major, I'm a ruined man, I'm beat all into 
doll rags, and there's a thousand bumps on my poor head as big as 
turkey eggs. My back and my neck have been through a threshing 
machine. I'm as humble as a dead nigger. I'm the rise of sixty years 
old, and never was whipped before. Major, I want somebody to pray 
for me. I prayed for myself awhile ago. I prayed more in two min- 
utes than I ever did in all my life, and I prayed harder, and if the 
good Lord spares me, I'm going to be a better man." 



The Farm and The Fireside. 311 

''Why, Colonel, " said I, "where were you? Did your horse cut 
up ? Have you been in all that hail ? " 

"I have, Major," said he, and the tears came in his eyes. "It took 
me all unawares and my horse got to raring and pitching, and I 
couldn't get out of the buggy, and so I run him up against your nabor 
Freeman's fence, a^nd he danced and he pranced and squatted and 
trembled, and I held him and honied him and prayed all the time as 
hard as I could pray, and the hail-stones popped me until they mashed 
my hat down over my ears, and then my skull cotch it hot and heavy, 
and my head is swelled up so big now I can't get my hat off." 

"Mighty bad. Colonel," said I, "awful bad for an old man like you." 

"Yes," said he, "and it seemed tome that every time a big old 
sockdolager struck me I could hear somebody say, 'Oh, you old sinner, 
you time honored sinner, I'll maul the grace into your unbelieving 
soul.'" 

I tried to get the injured man to get out and come in, but he 
mournfully said "no," for he must get out o' town and see a doctor 
and a preacher. 

But how long the colonel will remain humble I don't know, for as 
a general thing a man's repentance and humility passes away with his 
trouble and his danger. 

" The devil was sick, the devil a saint would be. 
The devil got well, the devil a saint was he." 

Well, the equinox has come and gone, and maybe the spring will 
open now and let us farm in earnest; all we could do the last two 
months was to repair damages after the freshets and stay in the house 
and read. I took a notion the other day to thin out my shade trees 
in the grove, for they were too thick and were so crowded the limbs of 
some of them were dying. I've been wanting to do it for a long 
time, but my wife, Mrs. Arp, thinks nearly as much of a tree as she 
does of me, and whenever I mentioned the subject there was a veto, 
and I couldn't pass the bill over it by the proper majority. So while 
she was away looking -after her new grand children, I cut two of the 
trees down and made firewood of them, and cleaned up every chip and 
fragment, and put old dirt where the stumps were, and the children 
have all agreed to make no sign, and they have got up a bet or two as 
to whether their maternal ancestor will miss the tree or not, and little 
Jessie has bet her doU against a nickel that her ma will say something 



312 The Farm and The Fireside. 

about the trees before she gets out of the buggy. But she will get 
reconciled after awhile, especially if I get some more flowers. And 
besides, there is a surprise for her in the house, for the girls have 
painted the dining-room floor and the doors and windows and mantle- 
piece, and whitewashed the walls a pretty straw color, and painted the 
ceiling overhead a lovely brown to hide fly specks, and now they are 
at work on another room ; and we boys are building a new front fence 
and making another terrace, and so, take it all in all, I reckon we will 
all harmonize and everything be calm and serene. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 313 



CHAPTER LXV. 



Runaway Negroes, Ghosts and Old-Time Darkies. 

"Papa, please tell us a story. Tell us something about runaway 
niggers." 

I had almost forgotten that there ever was a runaway nigger. 
Good gracious ! What a long time ago it was. Here is a whole gener- 
ation of people under thirty years of age who know nothing about 
slavery. It is seldom that we old folks talk about it to our children. 
We tell them frequently of our frolics with the little darkies, and how 
good old Aunt Peggy was to us, and how we used to hunt with Big 
Ben and Virgil and Uncle Sam, and we repeat some of the ghost 
stories they used to tell us and all that, but the idea of slavery hardly 
ever comes in. These darkies all belonged to the family and just 
lived with us. That is all. We were all bunched together, and it 
was understood that when one of the boys got married and set up for 
himself he was to have little Dave and Buck and black Dap and Aunt 
Sally, for he had always claimed these and they had always claimed 
him. And Miss Tavy had picked out her vassals in her early child- 
hood and nobody need lay any claim or expectation to Tip or Sinda 
or Beck, for they were to be hers and they knew it and were proud of 
it, and took a peculiar interest in the young man who ''come flying 
around Miss Tavy." They even dared to venture their counsel and 
were loud in their praise of their favorite. This was right, and it 
was natural, for while she was choosing her lord they were choosing a 
master, and a harmonious choice w^as a good thing all around. Old 
Aunt Peggy was an oracle in her way. She was little and old and 
wrinkled, and smoked her pipe in the chimney corner, and never 
talked much. But she sat and swayed backward and forward and 
listened to the children — the black and the white. She called them 
all children if they were under fifty. But ever and anon she would 
give a grunt or shake her head and say "dat won't do, my child. Bet- 
ter mine how you talk, now; better mine. I hear de screech owl last 



314 The Farm and The Fireside. 

night and he talk to me, he did," and she would make up some mys 
terious words that the screech owl said. Aunt Peggy believed in 
frogs and lizzards and owls and bats and cats and snakes and jack 
o'lanterns and charms and cunjuring. There were secret mysteries 
about them all, and they had to be propitiated and kept amiable or 
some great harm would come upon the household. Where the old 
negroes got all this superstitious lore nobody knows exactly, but it is 
not confined to them. There have been just such superstitions in all 
ages and countries. Macbeth consulted the witches and they made 
their charms by seething that horrible gruel made of frogs and lizzards 
and owls and bats and and adders' tongues and goats' gall and a 
Turk's nose and a Tartar's lips and other unpalatable things, and then 
cooled it down and settled it with a baboon's blood. Those old-time 
negroes would have made splendid witches if there had been any 
witch school to go to. It suited their nature, and it suits it yet. As 
a race, they delight in the marvelous when it is mixed up with the 
horrible. Old Uncle Sam was a good old darkey and the children 
loved him. He was familiar with spirits and graveyards, and had 
shook hands with Rawhead and Bloodybones, and when freedom came 
he gave full play to his fancies and got him a little long-eared donkey 
and a pair of spectacles and rode from cabin to cabin by day and by 
night, calling himself "Doctor Sam," and professing to cure all diseases 
of his race by the mysterious art of »cunjuring. He carried his profes- 
sional outfit in an old greasy sack before him, and he was the most 
ludicrous burlesque upon the medical profession ever seen, I reckon. 
I would give five dollars for a photograph of the whole concern as it 
used to slowlj perambulate the Chattahoochee region of old Gwinnett 
some twenty years ago. I prevailed on the old gentleman once to let 
me see the inside of that bag and take an inventory. Besides nearly 
everything that Shakespeare named, he had every curious bug he 
could find. Betty bugs and June bugs and tumble bugs, and the 
devil's riding horse, and the devil's darning needle, and a green snake, 
and a thousandleg, and a lot of herbs, such as hemlock and jimpson 
weed and snake root. He assured me that he had to use all these 
things in the very bad cases he came across in his extensive practice. 
But the children wanted a story about runaway niggers. Well, I 
never saw a runaway nigger. That is, while he was a runaway. I 
have seen them after they were caught or come in of their own 



The Farm and The FiPwEside. 315 

accord. We boys and girls used to be awfully afraid of them. They 
were classed among our very worst boogers, such as bears and pan- 
thers and Indians and ghosts. Children were always on the lookout 
for one when they were going through lonely woods. Sometimes we 
found a hogbed where an old sow had littered her pigs, and we pro- 
nounced it a runaway's bed, and got away from there with celerity. 
They were very scarce in that region. I do not remember but one 
and he was suddenly cured of his propensity, for when he came back 
home his master run him off again and made him stay in the woods 
until he was properly humbled and begged to stay at home. I never 
thought that I should have a runaway nigger, but I did. Our col- 
ored household were, as I thought, devoted to us, and I knew that we 
were devoted to them. Our maid-servant, Mary, had nursed all our 
first children, and they loved her. A neighboring gentleman owned 
her husband, and as he was a high-strung darkey, they did not get along 
harmoniously. One night he took to the woods, or somewhere else 
unknown, and he stayed there. In course of time his master got tired 
of this and offered a reward, but the reward did not seem to catch 
him. The police frequented my premises by night, for they suspected 
that Mary harbored him, and so did I, but still Anderson could not 
be found. I didn't like the darkey, but Mary was faithful and kind, 
and she begged me with tears to buy Anderson. So I interviewed his 
master and bought him — bought him in the woods, and that night 
when I went home and told Mary that Anderson was mine she clapped 
her hands with joy, and went out hurridly and in ten minutes came 
back with Anderson, who was smiling and fat with his long rest under 
the fodder in my stable loft. 

It was about two months after this that the foul invaders run us 
out of Rome. It was about midnight when I aroused the servants 
and told them that I was going, and their mistress was going, and the 
children were going, and they could all do as they pleased. With one 
accord they declared they would follow us to the end of the earth, and 
so we fled together and camped out together, and Mary had our baby 
in her arms, and when we reached Atlanta our teams and servants 
camped on the suburbs while we went into the city to more friendly 
quarters. Next morning Mary and Anderson were gone. They had 
run away in the night and returned to Rome. Well, I couldn't blame 
them, for Anderson was not attached to me, and he longed for free- 



316 The Farm and The Fireside. 

dom, and he persuaded Mary to go. That was all of it — no, not all, 
for when we got back to Rome, in 1865, they were there, and Mary 
was repentant and came to us for protection again. Her husband had 
joined the army, and when the army left he ran away from them and 
lost his pension and his bounty, and later on he ran away from Mary 
and I don't know where he is now. But Tip, the faithful Tippecanoe, 
would not leave me. I did not own his family, but he left them on that 
dark, unhappy night and followed us to Atlanta, and in a few days I 
made him go back to take care of things and see after the welfare of 
his wife and children. To keep from being suspected as a spy he, too, 
joined the colored regiment as a cook and stayed a few days, and one 
dark night he swam the Oustanaula river and went down the western 
bank of the Coosa about ten miles and swam that river, and by a cir- 
cuitous route reached Atlanta in safety and followed our fortunes until 
the war was over. Well, those were the only runaways I ever had. 
Two ran away from me to the yankees, and one ran away from the 
yankees to get to me. Mr. Lincoln's proclamation was nothing to 
Tip. Tip was with me in Virginia. Tip was always faithful and 
affectionate. Tip deserves a pension from somebody, and I wish I 
was able to give him one. But Tip knows there is a home for him at 
my house whenever he is homeless. There are thousands of white 
men whose chances for heaven are not so good as Tip's. 
"Kun, nigger, run, de * pat-roller' catch you; 
Run, nigger, run, you better get away." 

They used to sing that song and pick the music on the banjo. They 
used to dodge and flank the patrol like the smugglers or the moon- 
shiners dodge the revenue laws. They enjoyed the peril of it, and 
sometimes would go on a night excursion without a pass rather than 
ask for one. If they planned to rob a hen-roost or an orchard or a 
watermelon patch, it was better to have no pass, so as to prove an 
alibi. *' Let Dick pass to his wife's house at Jim Dunlap's and stay 
till Monday morning." That was Dick's passport and protection, but 
Dick must keep in the road, and not go skylarking over the settle- 
ment. Nevertheless, the petty stealing would happen, and so a law 
was passed making it a crime for a white man to buy chickens or pro- 
duce from a negro without an order from his master. My uncle 
bought ten chickens from a darkey one Saturday night and they hap- 
pened to be stolen, and the fellow who lost them reported it to the 



The Farm and The Fireside. 317 

grand jury, and those chickens cost my uncle twenty-five dollars. If 
they had not been stolen it would have been all right and no harm 
done. The negroes stole little things then just like they do now. 
They enjoyed it. It was their nature. They were not hungry. I 
have known them to rob an orchard and give the fruit away. The 
best negro would carry something contraband to his wife's house Sat- 
urday night if he could get it. But the clever, industrious negroes 
had no fear of the patrol. The patrol knew all in their beat and 
never asked a good negro for his pass. The patrol was made up of 
the best citizens in the naborhood, and they took it time about in 
doing night duty in their own vicinity. When thieving got bad they 
went out frequently and raised a big racket and the mean darkies 
caught it bad. But when everything was quiet they would not go out 
once a month. Sometimes the darkies made narrow escapes and would 
jump the back window when they spied the patrol coming, and then 
the race was to the swift, sure enough, and the old song came in: 
" Run, nigger, run, de * pat-roller ' catch you ! " 
Many a good story have they told us boys how they fooled the 
patrol and got away. It was more of a frolic than a fear, and one 
success made them bold and ready for another. Such was negro life 
in our young days; and it wasn't so bad, so very bad, after all. 



318 The Farm and The Fireside. 



CHAPTER LXVI. 



The Candy-Pulling. 

"What's all this rumpus about?" I came home to dinner and 
found the house full and yard full of children, grandchildren and 
other children. ''Oh, nothing much," said Mrs. Arp. ''I prom- 
ised them a little party and they have come over to spend the day, 
and brought some little friends with them." 

"Well, but these door-knobs are all stuck up with candy." "Yes, 
they had a candy pulling, and, I expect, have messed up things just 
like children will. I will wipe off the door-knobs." 

' ' Well, but here Pve gone and set down on a lump of it in this 
chair." 

Mrs. Arp smiled and said: "Well, there's the washbowl and 
a rag." 

I meandered out in the piazza and found candy knee deep in every- 
thing. The chaps were in the back yard cooking dinner on a little 
brick furnace they had built. Some were toting water and some 
bringing wood, and they had potatoes and rice and eggs and butter 
and pepper and everything they could beg from the cook. The 
waterspout was running all over everything. I stopped that part of 
it and surrendered to the rest, and retired to my accustomed seat at 
my desk. 

"Who has been here projecting with my pens and letter pads, and 
turned over my inkstand and messed up my papers ? " 

"Oh, I don't reckon they have hurt anything. Rosa wanted to 
show me how she was learning to write. There was very little ink in 
the stand. I wiped off all she spilt." 

I got up and walked in the garden, as King Ahasuerus did, to let 
my choler down, and I found where they had been picking peas and 
broke the twine that held the vines up, (I always stick my peas with 
twine), and so I came out of the garden to let my choler down some- 
where else. I looked all round for. the children to give them a bless- 



The Farm and The Fireside. 319 

ing, but they had become alarmed, for Mrs. Arp had told them to 
run and hide. 'Til wear them out," said I. "Fll wear them out, 
big and little, old and young. Fm awful mad. Fm as mad as a 
mad bull. Broke down my pea vines ! " And I mocked a bull and 
pawed dirt. The chaps had run up the ladder and got on the shed 
roof of the house, and as I pranced and bellowed around they smoth- 
ered their laughter until I was out of sight, and then they turned 
loose in full chorus. I found the buggy pulled out of the shed and 
the whip gone, and the calf was tied up in the back lot with a saddle 
on, so I took my seat in the front piazza and put my feet on the rail- 
ing and ruminated. My thoughts carried me away back to my child- 
hood when I took delight in such things, and the whole picture came 
before me like the turning of a kaleidoscope. What a pity that folks 
can't be as happy as when they are children. About this time Mrs. 
Arp came out with a bundle of stuff and remarked that she brought 
home some pinks and chrysanthemums that must be planted out. 
"Are you doing anything?" said she. *'I am ruminating," said I, 
solemnly. ''Well, you had better ruminate around for the garden 
hoe, and Fll help you put them out — your back needs exercise." 

I was picking peas the other morning, and as they were of the low 
kind, I had to bend over smartly, and by and by when I tried to 
straighten up, I couldn't straighten. There was a hitch and a pain in 
my veins — the same old trouble I had once before when I worked in 
the water half a day damming up the branch to make a wash hole for 
t^e children — so I hurried from the garden to the house half bent and 
made my usual fuss for help and sympathy. I was down for two days, 
and took medicine and chicken soup, and they put a bellydona plaster 
on my back as big as a letter pad, and it is there yet, and Fm not 
well, by a long shot but my folks seem to think I am. If I get up 
and creep to town, they put me to work aa soon as I get back. I 
used to have boys of all sorts and sizes to wait upon me and do my 
bidding, but they have all grown up and left me but one, and he is 
at school, and when he isn't, he is off somewhere at baseball or tennis 
or picnicing around. I am the boy now — the waiting boy. 

I was ruminating, but I found the hoe and dug around according to 
orders. Last night at the supper table Mrs. Arp remarked, as she was 
making the coffee, that to-day was another anniversary. I thought she 
meant a birthday, for they seem to come about once a week in the 



320 The Farm and The Fireside. 

family, and she always wants to make a little present of some sort — 
a spoon, or napkin ring, or sleeve buttons, or something. I tell you 
what is a fact — where there are ten or a dozen children in a family to 
start on and they grow up and get married and multiply and replen- 
ish, and the posterity keeps on getting "more thicker, more denser," 
as Cobe says, and the maternal ancestor is a large-hearted woman, 
these birthday gifts and wedding presents will keep the old man^s sur- 
plus down as effectually as the Republican party keeps it down in the 
United States Treasury. It is the easiest thing in the world. I never 
saw a mother with a numerous flock of lovely offspring but what she 
wanted a big house and a bushel of money. My wife is always scratch- 
ing around hunting up something for the children. She reminds me 
of an old hen with a brood of young chickens, always a-clucking and 
scratching — and she says that I remind her of the old rooster who 
every now and then finds a bug or a worm and makes a big fuss and 
calls up the little chicks, and just before they get there he gobbles it 
up himself. 

No, she didn't mean a birthday. She said that twenty-seven years 
ago to-day we were running from the foul invader as fast as our 
good horse and a rockaway could carry us. "Just about this time,"" 
said she, "we were hurrying across Euharlee bridge and I trembled 
all over for fear it would break in two, for it vibrated up and down to 
old Buckner's heavy trot, but you never slackened up a bit, and we 
fairly flew through old Van Wert, and took the mountain road until 
we got to Mr. Whitehead's, about dark." 

"Yes," said I, "and we stayed all night there, and they did the 
best they could for all the runnagees, but they dident have room for. 
the men folks, and we slept out doors under the wagon shed, and the 
fleas kept us so lively that we got up in the night and run through the 
bushes to brush them off, just like cattle do when the flies are after 
them." 

"And the next morniug about daylight," said she, "the news came 
that the yankees were coming, and we started up that long mountain, 
and it did seem to me that we never would get to the top. It must 
have been three or four miles up, and we felt pretty safe then and 
stopped awhile to rest, and then we scooted away to Dallas and rested 
there for dinner, and that night we camped out somewhere near Pow- 
der Springs. The wagon and our tent and baggage kept up pretty 



The Farm and The Fireside. 321 

well, but we found out we dident have anything to cook in except a 
coffee pot." 

*' Yes, I remember," said I, *'and we sent Tip off to a little farm 
house to borrow a skillet, and he came back without it and said the 
old woman told him the old man was washin' his feet in it, and we 
would have to wait until he got through. She said his feet had sores 
on 'em, and the dishwater was powerful good for sores. Tip tried 
another place and got a skillet that wasn't so popular." 

''And next morning," said Mrs. Arp, "we stopped to get some 
water at a house, and the well was in the front yard, and it was 
locked with a chain and a padlock, and they wouldn't let us have a 
drop, ahd you gave the woman 10 cents for a cupful for the baby. 
Oh, it was just awful." 

"I believe," said I, "that we had about seven children then." 

"Yes," said she, wuth a sigh, "poor little half-starved things." 

"Why, they enjoyed it," said I. "They thought it was a big frolic, 
and that we were running a race with Joe Johnston, trying to see who 
would beat to Atlanta." 

"Stella was the baby then," said my wife, looking at her earnestly, 
"a little fretful, black-eyed baby, and now she is sitting here, a mother, 
with a child of her own that is so much like what she was then that 
sometimes I imagine the child is mine, and I am getting ready to make 
a new run from the yankees." 

"May the foul invaders live long, when the devil gets them," said 
I. "They kept you trotting, and you bore it like a heroine; you have 
seen a good deal of troublous life, and I'm thankful that now your 
days are calm and serene." 



322 The Farm and The FiEEsmE. 



CHAPTER LXVII. 



Family Reform. 

Nature can beat art sometimes. I've been to the theatre afore now, 
and the players acted the play so natural and sympathetic that I got 
all tangled up and excited, and would cry or laugh just as they did; 
but nature can beat art sometimes. Just about sundown, the other 
evening, while we were all sitting in the piazza, calm and serene, 
there was a wild shriek down at the corner of the garden, and it was 
Carl calling, and he said: **Run here to Linton! Linton is killed! 
Run, papa; run, somebody;" and we did run, and Mrs. Arp and the 
girls cried, "Oh, mercy! Oh, good Lord!" and all sorts of interjec- 
tions and conjunctions at every step, and there was a wild and fearful 
panic when we got to the boy, and he was lying pale and senseless on 
the rocky ground, with a big limb across his breast. He had fallen 
about twelve feet from the top of a venerable apple tree that they 
say was planted by the Indians about sixty years ago. I heaved the 
old broken limb off of the boy and took him in my arms, and then up 
the hill to the house, and my escort, oh, my escort! with then- cries 
and screams, demoralized me fearfully. He was a stout lad of thir- 
teen, this grandson of ours, and as tough as a pine-knot, and I knew 
he was hurt, badly hurt, but I can always keep calm and serene on 
such occasions, if the women will let me. Laying him gently on the 
bed, Mrs. Arp ripped his garments with trembling hands and moth- 
erly sobbings to find the flowing blood and the gaping wounds and 
the broken limbs, but they were not there. He was shocked and 
senseless, and breathed hard and gurgled in his throat, and groaned 
and sighed, but I had seen those isigns before with the other boys, and 
had faith. And sure enough, m about an hour he came to himself, 
and looking around upon the excited family, asked what was the mat- 
ter, and said: ''Grandma, I dreamed I was falling from the apple 
tree." The doctor came about that time and found his arm and 
shoulder badly bruised and one rib hurt, perhaps fractured, and said 



The Farm and The Fireside. 323 

be would be awful sore for a day or two, and tben get well and be 
ready for tbe next skirmish. But Mrs. Arp was not satisfied, and 
watched him all night, and as he slept she listened to his breathing 
and felt his pulse and imagined that something was internally wrong. 
The boy carries his arm in a handkerchief now, and can't go in a 
washing nor shoot a sling nor climb a tree, and he and Carl have to 
stay in the house and read story books and look at the pictures. But 
the like of this has to happen. It is part of a boy's raising. I 
wasent much account until I fell down a ladder head foremost and 
was picked up for dead. I told my wife I wouldent give a cent for a 
boy who had never fell out of an apple, tree or got his arm broke, or 
his head gashed, or something of the kind. If a man has never had 
any narrow escapes, or any wounds, or any broken bones, or been 
thrown from a horse and picked up for dead, what kind of a father 
will he be? What has he got to tell his little boy, and excite his won- 
der and admiration? I had lots of mishaps myself, and as I grow 
older Mrs. Arp says they grow bigger and more numerous. Well, of 
course ! Nobody wants to tell the same old thing the same old way a 
thousand times. Amplification is a sign of genius. Being knocked 
down and addled is a big thing ; but to be picked up for dead is 
heroic. 

I've got these children to watch now. Mrs. Arp has gone to 
visit her old home in Gwinnett, and she gave me a whole cata- 
logue of admonitions and ordinations and recapitulations, which I've 
forgotten already. She has gone to see her brothers and their wives 
and children, and the dear old home where her father and mother 
used to wear the parental crown, and had more love and more power 
than a king. What a sacred temple was that old family room. It 
was the court where she brought all her childish troubles and got 
comfort. She remembers every nail in the floor, every brick in the 
hearth, every knot in the ceiling overhead. She wanted to see the 
big old oaks in the back yard, under whose shades she played and 
fiwung and had her playhouse of broken china. The cooing pigeons 
made love upon their spreading limbs by day, and the noisy katydids 
by night. She wanted to see the big old spring at the foot of the 
hill, for she knew there was no change, no decay, no mortality there. 
The water is still running, and though the frog and the craw-fish and 
the spring-lizzard that used to excite her youthful fears, have departed 



324 The Farm and The Fireside. 

this life intestate, they left children to inherit and enjoy that peaceful^ 
shady spring. The little branch still flows on over its gravelly bed 
and down into the little fish pond below, and the ripple of its water* 
Btfll sings that same old song — 

" For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever." 

I know that her memory will linger there sweetly, for she used to 
wade in that branch, and she would like to wade in it again if nobody 
was looking, but I reckon she won't. There is a 'simmon tree on the 
hill close by that she used to climb in the fall of the year, for she was 
as fond of 'simmons as a 'possum, but she will never clinb it any more; 
I reckon she won't. The grape vine swing at the back of the gardea 
and the saplings she used to bend down and ride are gone — all gone; 
but she doesn't want to ride saplings now. Old Aunt Peggy has 
gone, too ; gone where the good darkies go. She was always old and 
wrinkled and dried up, but she was faithful unto death, and the 
children loved her. Nobody knew how old she was. For forty con- 
secutive years she said she was a hundred — no more, no less — always 
a hundred. But, dearest of all, is the old grave-yard, where *Hhe 
rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." I know she will linger there 
with sweet and sad emotions, for there sleep her nearest and dearest 
ones — father and mother and brothers and an only sister, and, sweetest 
of all, a dear little babe of her own. How surely does life and love 
repeat the scenes of our youth. Hers were fond parents, and there 
was a flock of children, fair children, all hopeful and happy and 
loving, and they were ten— just ten. She and I have succeeded 
them, and we have ten — just ten. We, too, have a cottage home and 
a spring at the foot of the hill, and a branch for the children to play 
in, and a fish pond, and big oaks with pigeons cooing on the limbs. 
Just as they had, we have pea-fowls to scream, and ducks and 
chickens, and sheep, and cattle, and dogs' bark and cats' purr, and 
our children and grandchildren come and go; and by and by we 
will go to sleep and leave them all alone, just as we were left. 

And this is right — all right. When we have served our day and 
generation, then let us go. Let us marshal them the way of life, and 
give good counsel, and retire in peace and Christian hope of a reunion. 
Not a reunion like the soldiers have — that comes every year, with 
diminished numbers — but a reunion in a better land that grows and 



The Farm and The Fireside. 325 

grows to countless legions, and every year brings new recruits from 
kindred and from friends. How often do I sit in reverie when I hear 
of a good parent's, death and dream I hear the glad voices of those 
who have gone before, as they bring tidings of each other and say, 
"Our father has come," "Our mother has come at last." What a 
welcome to the orphan when the angel mother gives the warm 
embrace and says, "My child, my child! God bless my child!' 
Some folks don't believe in this, but I do. 

I'm going to wallop these boys if they don't mind. I've humored 
and indulged them until they think there is no willipus wallipus on 
the plantation. They slipped off and went in a-washing this evening 
about four o'clock, when the sun was as hot as blazes. I had promised 
them they might go in late, when the shadows of the willows had 
covered the pond, and now they say they misunderstood me. Their 
backs are nearly blistered, and I've a good mind to blister them a 
little lower down. I would have done it, but Linton has a lame arm 
and Carl was running at the nose. I see a lame guinea hopping 
around, and it hops very like a slingshot struck it. They killed a 
pigeon not long ago, and said they didn't mean to hit it, but was just 
trying to see how close they could miss it. I found my first and big- 
gest melon plugged in the patch, and, though I didn't believe they 
would do me that mean, I held a courtmartial and took testimony and 
looked as fierce and majestic as possible. They declared their inno- 
cence and showed a heap of wounded feelings and told how they 
found our little darkey's knife in the melon patch, and so the little 
darkey surrendered and confessed, which never was done by a darkey 
before, and his mother whipped him from Dan to Beersheba, and my 
boys were discharged with honor and the commendation of the court. 
Carl is a very good boy by himself, and Linton is good by himself. 
Each of them work well in single harness, but hitch them together to 
a wagon and they are bound to break something. I'm going for these 
chaps while Mrs. Arp is away. I'm for civil service reform now. 
Their mothers are afar off and I'm the autocrat. I'll teach them how 
to grabble the goobers before they are ripe. 

No, I won't, either, and they know I won't. These boys are 
mighty good to me. They bring me fresh water from the spring 
without being told. They black my shoes when I am going to town. 
They follow me around the farm and help me get roasting ears. They 



326 The Farm and The Fireside. 

listen to my marvelous stories with an affectionate wonder that flatters 
my vanity. They borrow my pocket-knife. They find my hat and 
my walking-stick, and help me dig the potatoes for dinner. They are 
good company, these boys, now that Jessie has gone. I miss "Jessie, 
the flower of Dumblane." She is my special comfort when I am 
ailing or have the blues. She rubs my head and brushes my back 
hair and talks so loving and kind, and always kisses me good-night 
after she has said her prayers. 

Mrs. Arp will go to meeting Sunday. The same old church is 
there close by her old home — the church she was raised in and where 
she went to class-meeting, and heard old Fathers Murphey and Ivy 
and Norton talk. The church where Judge Longstieet used to preach 
at quarterly meetings — Judge Longstreet who used to distress old 
Uncle Allan Turner, a good old man, because the judge would play 
on the fiddle and flute, and wrote some unheavenly stories in the 
Georgia Scenes. Both of these notable men always found welcome at 
her father's house, and while the judge was discoursing sweet music 
in the parlor, old father Turner was walking the piazza, interceding in 
silent prayer for his forgiveness and reform. There were never two 
Christian men more unlike than they, but they are both in heaven 
now, and maybe Uncle Allan has got reconciled to music. We are 
all a bundle of prejudices, as well as habits, and I am glad to know 
that the age in which we live to-day is more tolerant that the last. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 327 



CHAPTER LXVIII. 



Music. 



Music is the only employment that is innocent and refining, and that 
cannot be indulged in to excess. It stands by itself as the peculiar 
gift of God. It is the only art that is alike common to angels and to 
men. It has a wonderful compass and variety, and yet from the 
grandest to the simplest, it is all pleasing and all innocent. Every 
other pleasure can be carried to dissipation, but not music. 

The highest order of music is that which we never hear, but only 
read about and wonder. It is called the music of the spheres — the 
grand symphony that is made by the planets and other heavenly bodies 
coursing around the sun, and which Milton says is heard only by God 
and the angels. I don't suppose that such creatures as we are, afflicted 
and limited with original sin, could bear that kind of music. The child 
that is charmed with a lullaby or soothed to sleep with "Hush, my 
dear, lie still and slumber," would be frightened at an oratorio from 
Handel. But musical taste is progressive, like every other good thing. 

The time was when I thought "Billy in the low grounds," and 
"Bonaparte crossing the Rhine," perfectly splendid, but I don't now. 
I have advanced to a higher grade. By degrees the children have 
educated me, and as they climb up, I climb a little, too. Time was 
when I thought "Kathleen Mavourneen" the sweetest song, and my 
wife, whom I was courting, the sweetest singer in the world. But I 
don't now — that is, I mean the song. There are sweeter songs. I 
don't wish to be misunderstood about the singer. No doubt her voice 
has the same alluring, ensnaring, angelic, elysian sweetness it had forty 
years ago, more or less, but the fault is in me, for when a man has 
once been allured, and ensnared, and is getting old and deaf, he loses 
some of his gushing appreciation. Nevertheless, when her eldest 
daughter touches the ivory keys and sings Longfellow's beautiful 
hymn of 

"The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of night," 



328 The Farm and The FiREsroE. 

my appreciation seems to come back, and it makes me calm and serene 

There is nothing in all nature that so proves the goodness of God to 
his creatures as in giving to them the love of music and the faculty to 
make it. It is the cheapest and the most universal pleasure. Much 
of it costs nothing, for we hear it in the winds and waves, the trees, 
the waterfalls, and from the birds and insects. It is of many kinds, 
from the pealing anthem that swells the note of praise in Westminster 
Abbey, down to the plantation harmonies of the old-time darkies around 
the corn-pile. Between these extremes we have the music of the drama, 
the concert, the nursery, and the drawing-room. 

I was having these thoughts because Mrs. Arp and the children 
were practicing some church music in the parlor, preparing for Sun- 
day. Some of the family belong to the choir, and it is a good thing 
to belong to. Choirs have their little musical fusses sometimes, and 
get in the pouts; but, nevertheless, it is a good place to raise children. 
It makes them go to church and to Sunday-school, and go early, and 
if they are facing the congregation they have to keep awake and 
behave decently, and they do their best to look pretty and sing 
sweetly. I used to belong to the choir, and it was there Mrs. Arp 
saw me, and ever and anon heard the sweet strains of my melodious 
tenor voice. But, alas! that voice has changed to a bass at one end 
and a falsetto at the other, and * * there's a melancholly crack in my 
laugh." 

Young man, young woman, if you have any gifts for music, you 
had better join the church choir, but if you haven't, don't. 

Sacred music is very much varied according to denominations. The 
Roman Catholic church is the oldest and the richest and has the most 
passionate music and the finest organs, and embraces a rendering of 
such intense words as are found in the ''Agnus Dei," and "Gloria in 
Excelsis," and the litany and chants of the old masters. The Protest- 
ant church has rejected the dramatic style and confined its music to 
hymns and psalms of sober temper, and in the main, has done away 
with the fugue and galloping style of one part chasing another through 
the vocal harmonies. 

I remember when it was the fashion, in fashionable choirs, to give 
one part several feet the start in the race, and the others would start 
later and overtake it before they all got to the end of the line. There 
is a hymn beginning, "I love to steal awhile away," and the tenor 



The Farm and The Fireside. 329 

would start out with "I love to steal" — and then the alto would 
prance up with "I love to steal," and then the bass confessed the 
unfortunate frailty, "I love to steal," and hurried on for fear the first 
man would steal it all before he got there. 

Sacred music is of very ancient origin. Indeed, it is older than the 
church or the temple, for we find that Mosefe sang a song when he had 
crossed the Red Sea, and he said, "I will sing a song unto the Lord, 
for he is my strength and my salvation," and when he finished his 
song, Miriam took it up, and she and her maidens sang and made 
music on timbrels. King David sang all through his psalms, and 
Isaiah not only sang, but wanted everything to sing, for he says: 
' * Sing, oh ye heavens, for the Lord hath done it. Break forth into 
singing, oh ye mountains, and every tree, for the Lord hath redeemed 
Israel." 

I was looking over this book that we are now using in our church, 
a new and beautiful book containing 1,200 hymns, and a tune with 
written music to every hymn. Here are 360 authors of all Christian 
denominations. Of these, sixty-one are women, seventy are English 
Episcopalians, twenty are Scotch Presbyterians, and only eight are 
American Presbyterians. Eight are Methodists, ten are Baptists, 
fourteen are Congregationalists, and five are Roman Catholics. The 
rest are Dissenters, Lutherans, Unitarians, Moravians, Quakers and 
Independents. Only fifty-four are Americans. Leaving out Isaac 
Watts and Charles Wesley, most of these hymns were composed by 
English Episcopalians. Isaac Watts was the founder of hymnology. 
One hundred and twenty-six of his hymns are in this book. He has 
been dead 142 years, but we are still singing: "Welcome, Sweet 
Day of Rest," "How Beauteous Are Their Feet," "When I Can 
Read My Title Clear," "Before Jehovah's Awful Throne," "Am I 
a Soldier of the Cross?" and many more of his composing. 

He was a very small man with a very large soul. He was only five 
feet high and weighed less than a hundred pounds, and never married. 
His hymns are sung all over the Christian world. Our grand-parents 
and parents, ourselves and our children, have all treasured them and 
become familiar with them. 

Charles Wesley, a Methodist, has thirty-six hynrns in this book — 
most of them inspired from his intense, absorbing love of the Savior 
— such as "Blow Ye the Trumpet, Blow," and "Jesus, Lover of My 



330 The Farm and The Fireside. 

Soul." He was a brother of John AVesley, the founder of Method 
ism, and came to Georgia with him in 1735. 

Rev. John Newton has twenty-six hymns in this collection. What 
a strange, eventful life was his. Seized and impressed for a seaman 
on board a man-of-war when he was only nineteen years of age — 
deserted — was caught, and flogged, and degraded — deserted again, 
and hired himself to a slave-trading vessel. Four years afterwards he 
went back to England and married Mary Catlett, the girl he had been 
loving for years. He then equipped a slaver of his own, and shipped 
negroes from Africa to the West Indies, and made a fortune. 

In a few years he became disgusted with the business, and studied 
mathematics, Latin, Greek and Hebrew without a teacher. About 
that time Wesley and Whitfield began their great religious uprising, 
and he was converted and joined them and went to preaching. When 
eighty years old he preached three times a week, and when urged to 
stop on account of his feeble health, he replied: "What! Shall the 
old African negro trader and blasphemer stop while he can speak ? 
No ! " No wonder that the great change inspired him to write those 
beautiful hymns: " Amazing Grace ! How Sweet the Sound ; " "One 
There is Above All Others ; " " Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken ;" 
"Savior, Visit Thy Plantation." 

And next comes Cowper — the amiable, lovable, miserable Cowper — 
whose life was spent in alternating between hope and despair, and who 
was sent several times to the insane asylum. In his lucid intervals of 
hope he composed such hymns as "Sometimes a Light Surprises," 
"There is a Fountain Filled With Blood ;" "Oh, For a Closer Walk 
With God," and many others. 

James Montgomery, a Moravian, has twenty- three hymns in this 
book. His early life was full of trouble. He was indicted, tried 
and imprisoned for writing a ballad on the fall of the bastile. Soon 
after his release he wrote an account of the riot at Sheffield, and was 
again imprisoned. The press had but little freedom in his day, but 
his gentle, earnest. Christian character finally won for him the regard 
of his enemies, and he was granted a pension by the crown. There 
are no hymns in this book sweeter than his. Such, for instance, as 
"Oh, Where Shall Rest Be Found?" "Prayer is The Soul's Sincere 
Desire ;" "People of The Living God," etc. 

Addison, too, that stately, polished writer of essays, found time and 



The Farm and The Fireside. 331 

inclination to pay poetic tribute to his Maker. There is no poetry 
more majestic than the hymns beginning, "When All Thy Mercies, 
Oh, My God," and "The Spacious Firmament On High." And next 
we have Heber, the gifted bishop of Calcutta, the Christian gentle- 
man, who never knew a want, but, nevertheless, spent his life in 
charity and missionary work. His world-renowned hymn would have 
immortalized him, if he had written nothing else. 

"From Greenland's Icy Mountains" still stands as the chief of all 
missionary hymns. He wrote others of exquisite beauty, such as 
"Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning" and "By Cool 
Siloam's Shady Rill." 

Then there were many other composers who did not write much, 
but wrote exceeding well. There is: 

"How Firm a Foundation," by George Keith ; "Come Ye Discon- 
solate," by Thomas Moore, the poet laureate of England; "Awake 
My Soul," by Medley; "Come Thy Fount of Every Blessing," by 
Robert Robinson. 

Rev. Augustus Toplady has several beautiful hymns, but none com- 
pare with his "Rock of Ages Cleft For Me." Sir William Glad- 
stone, the great premier of England, was so much impressed with 
this hymn that he has translated it into Latin and other languages. 
Of a later date we find, "Nearer My God to Thee," by Mrs. Adams, 
an English lady. 

The oldest hymn in the book was written by Thomas Sternhold, in 
1549. He was groom to Henry VIII. The next oldest is well worth 
remembrance, for it was written in 1680 by Thomas Ken, and has but 
one verse, and that verse is sung oftener than any other verse in the 
world. Its first line is, "Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow." 
If Thomas Ken is in the heavenly chou- (and we believe he is), what 
serene comfort does his translated soul enjoy as it listens every Sabbath 
to his own doxology as it goes up from a million voices and swells 
heavenward from thousands of organs all over Christendom! 

Then we have hymns from Richard Baxter, who was chaplain to 
Charles II, and resisted the usurpation of Cromwell. 

And here we have hymns from Mrs. Charles, the gifted authoress 
of the Schonberg Cotta stories, and from William Cullen Bryant, our 
own poet laureate, and Francis S. Key, the author of the "Star 
Spangled Banner," and from Mrs. Sigourney and John Dryden, 



332 The Farm and The Fireside. 

another poet laureate of England, and Henry Kirk White, who died 
in his twenty-first year, but left as his monument *'The Star of 
Bethlehem." Here, too, is the litany by Sir Robert Grant. And 
here are many hymns from Dr. Muhlenberg, who wrote " I Would 
IN'otLive Always." 

And now, let me pause to remember that all these men and women 
are dead. Some have been dead three hundred years, some two 
hundred and very many one hundred, and some far less, but all are 
dead. But poetry outlives prose, and a song outlives a sermon. It is 
a comforting fact that most all of the famous poets have been 
Christian men and women, and have given to the church some of 
their sweetest and holiest thoughts in song. 

Dr. Oliver W. Holmes and John G. Whittier are both represented 
in this collection. 

But hymns w^ithout music lose half their beauty. They are like 
birds without wings — they cannot fly heavenward. 

And now if the choir and congregation will enter into the spirit of 
these beautiful hymns and sing them with pure religious feeling, it 
will be acceptable praise. A song without inspiration is music, but it 
is not praise. Professional choirs who sing for pay, seem to be singing 
for men and not for God. Such singing is like the funerals that have 
hired mourners. When the tune fits the sentiment of the hymn, 
like it was all one creation of genius, it greatly enhances the beauty of 
both. The Coronation Hymn would not be half so popular if the cor- 
onation music were not set to it. And this is one reason why the 
oratorios of the great masters, such as Handel and Mozart, have never 
been excelled. They composed both the sentiment and the song. 



The Farm and The Fireside. 333 



CHAPTER LXIX. 



The Sorrel Hair. 

Benson was his name — Tom Benson. He moved to our county and 
purchased a snug little farm in the valley, about eight miles from 
town. He had a wife and three children, and a negro man named 
Dick. When Benson came into the settlement, there was a little 
cloud came with him — a cloud over his reputation for honesty. It 
was whispered around that his nabors, who lived near his old home, 
were willing for him to go, for they said that his hogs and his sheep 
increased faster than was natural, and theirs decreased in some mys- 
terious manner. 

But still, Benson was a member of the church, and, being gifted 
with language, would sometimes talk and exhort in meeting, and lead 
in prayer. He was emotional and fervent, and soon made friends in 
his new home, and the cloud, for a time, dispersed. Mrs. Benson was a 
woman of good family; she was well mannered and industrious, but 
had a kind of pleading, pitiful expression, as though she was living 
under apprehension of trouble. Benson had family prayer night and 
morning, and always prayed loud, and a good long time; his negro 
man, Dick, came regularly to prayer, and said amen and amen in 
good Methodist fashion, but Dick soon got under a cloud, and it got 
larger and blacker as time rolled on, for the nabors said there was a 
rogue in the settlement. Chickens were missing, and the mill had 
been broken open, and Dick had carried chickens to town to sell one 
Saturday night. The relations between Dick and his master were 
very confiding — much more so than was usual between master and 
slave. They were companions, and consulted with each other, and 
this was after awhile talked about, to Benson's prejudice. If Dick 
stole chickens and sold them, who had the money? That was the 
question. Some little debts had followed Benson from his old home, 
and he had been sued in the Magistrate's Court, and had paid them 
little by little, and it was a mystery where he got the money, for his 



334 The Farm and The Fireside. 

crop was not harvested, and he had nothing to sell. But still Benson 
got along, and met the brethren on the Sabbath with a cheerful face, 
and prayed and exhorted as usual. There is one other fact — an 
important fact — that must be mentioned. Benson owed a balance of 
five hundred dollars of purchase money upon his place, and had been 
sued for it in the Circuit Court. 

Three miles below him, further down in the valley, lived a respect- 
able old gentleman whose name was Montague. He had raised a 
numerous family, but five of his sons, and as many daughters, were 
all married, and most of them had settled in the naborhood and were 
established and comfortable upon farms the old gentleman had given 
them, for he was quite wealthy. He was a solid man, of primitive 
habits, a member of the Presbyterian Church, and exemplary in all 
his conduct, saving the suspicion that he was a little too fond of gold, 
and when he loaned it exacted too high a rate of interest. He lived 
off of his ''intrust," as he called it, and he firmly believed that his 
gold was his. His loans were generally made to thrifty, prosperous 
men, but the poor and the distressed were turned away with the asser- 
tion that he did not have a cent in the world. He called his pocket 
the world, but his money was kept in an old hair trunk. 

The weight of many years had dimmed the old man's sight, and 
almost stopped up his ears. His aged wife was also deaf, but other- 
wise they were in good health ; and almost every Sunday there was a 
gathering there of children and grandchildren, and the old couple 
were going down to the grave most happily, considering their wants 
and their ambition. Sometimes they had one or more of their numer- 
ous posterity to stay over night with them, but most generally they 
were alone in the great big house, and the old man's gold was in the 
old hair trunk under his bed. His numerous slaves and domestic ser- 
vants occupied the cabins close by. They were faithful and obedient, 
for most of them had been born in his household, and knew no king 
but ** master," and no queen but "old mistis," and they were proud 
of his wealth and his dignity. 

One rainy morning in the spring of the year there was a wild alarm 
in the Montague household. The old hair trunk was gone. Mr. 
Montague never failed to give a glance that way when he arose. It 
was his habit as fixed as putting on his garments. He thought at 
first that his old eyes deceived him, and he stooped down and felt for 



The Farm and The FiREsmE. 335 

it with outstretched hand. Hastily dressing himself he looked around 
the room again and discovered a window up — a back window that 
looked upon the garden. It had not been raised for months. His 
wife had noticed his unusual manner and got up hastily and heard his 
excited voice and saw his misery as he exclaimed, "Gone — it's gone — 
the trunk — look at the window!" and he sank down in pitiful despair. 
The old lady hurried to the open window and looked upon the ground 
and saw nothing but a box — an old box that the robber had stood 
upon. Tottering to the door, she screamed to the servants and they 
came and they screamed, too, and sounded the alarm; then came the 
negroes generally from out their cabins, for it was not yet sunrise, and 
the wild panic began. The ball was opened. **Fore God deys stole 
old master's trunk, fore God dey is — tuck it outen de winder — fore 
God dey did!" ''Run Bob, run Jesse, run Jake, run children, run 
for Mas John and Mas Tom and Mas George — run for everybody and 
tell 'em come quick — run, honey, don't stop nary minit!" And they 
did run. In less than an hour the children and many nabors came in 
hot haste; some on foot and some on horseback, and all wild with 
desperate energy to catch the robbers. It did not take long to track 
them through the garden and over the garden fence and through the 
corn patch to the woods that bordered the clearing. And there in the 
undergrowth of oak and pine bushes was the trunk — the old hair 
trunk. It was wide open, and there was no more money in it than 
there was in the old man's ** world." His seven thousand dollars in 

if 

gold was gone. He had counted it all the day before, and the week 
before, and knew the amount. The old man tottered feebly to the 
scene and cried. The shock was too much fur him. His daughters 
led him back sorrowfully to the house, and as he bowed along he 
shook his head and exclaimed, ''Benson! Tom Benson did it!" and he 
kept up the refrain, and as the crowd passed to and fro, Benson was 
on every tongue, and the darkies took it up and cried "Benson," on 
the run. 

Old Mr. Montague had a reason for suspecting Benson. About 
two weeks before the robbery Benson called one morning and requested 
a loan of five hundred dollars, w^herewith to lift that mortgage off his 
land and save it from sale under the sheriff's hammer. He pleaded 
his great necessity in touching language, and when the old man 
declared he did not have a cent in the "world," he grew desperate 



336 The Farm and The Fireside. 

with disappointment, and as he rose to go he pointed his finger at him 
and said: **I know you have got it, and ten times over, and God 
Almighty will curse you with it yet before you die," and he left him 
greatly irritated. 

The old man had known somewhat of Benson long years before 
when they both lived in the same county, and he did not like him. 
Benson had served on a jury once when the old man had a case in 
court, and the jury found against him on a plea of usury, and the old 
man lost his ''intrust." He did not like his methods nor his Method- 
ism. He could not think of any other man in all his acquaintance 
who was mean enough and smart enough to commit the robbery, and 
outside of this acquaintance it was not possible for any one to know 
he had any money, or where the trunk was kept. And Dick, the 
black rascal! Dick had visited Mr. Montague's premises more than 
once on Sundays, and had come up to the old lady's door and saluted 
her, and he could have seen the trunk under the bed, and told his 
master where it was. 

Thus the account stood, and while the more thoughtful nabors were 
looking around the trunk in the woods, they suddenly discovered 
tracks — tracks of a horse and a mule. They found where the animals 
had been hitched while the robbers went after the trunk, and very 
near by where the mule was tied, there was a small hickory sapling 
cut off about knee high with a slanting stroke of the axe. It had 
been long done and the top edge was hard and dry and sharp, and 
there on the point of it was a little patch of sorrel hair. * The mule 
had skinned his leg and left the mark behind. This discovery settled 
it and removed all doubts, for Benson had a bay horse and a sorrel 
mule. Benson and Dick were the robbers. 

With hurried haste and fierce determination the male members of 
the Montague household and their resolute nabors mounted their 
steeds and went galloping up the valley road to Benson's house. 
Without ceremony or invitation they entered his stable lot and 
brought out the sorrel mule, and on close inspection found a skinned 
place on his knee, and the sorrel hair was all of a color. Benson and 
Dick were there and looked on with amazement, either feigned or 
real. Poor Mrs. Benson stood in her door with clasped hands, and 
looked the picture of alarm and despair. The children stood by their 
mother and clung to her garments as they looked in her face and then 



The Farm and The Fireside. 337 

at the crowd of desperate men, who had invaded the sacred precincts 
of their home. 

The leader of the crowd made a motion to his companions and 
uttered between his teeth, ''Take them." Benson and Dick were 
seized and tied and carried hastily away. They were mounted upon 
the mule and the bay, and the party were soon far beyond the cries 
and shrieks of mother and children. An hour's ride found them in a 
lonely dell back of the Montague farm, and there they dismounted 
and prepared their victims for confession and restitution, or otherwise 
for the scourge. It was in vain that Benson and Dick protested their 
innocence and plead for mercy. They were stripped and pinioned to 
two trees not far from each other, and as stroke after stroke brought 
the warm blood spurting from their veins, they called upon God for 
mercy, for man had none. "Oh, my God," groaned Benson, as the 
tears ran down his face. *'0h, Mas Tom, dey is killin' of me," 
screamed Dick. "Be a man, Dick, for Jesus' sake," replied Benson; 
and so the scourge went on until the avengers began to fear for the 
lives of their victims and held a whispered consultation. One of the 
more considerate walked away quietly, and carelessly took another 
look at the scar on the mule. Returning to Benson he told him how 
much better it would be for him to give up the gold, and promised 
tl^^t he should not be prosecuted if he would do so; but Benson main- 
tained his innocence with .prayers and tears, and the avengers were 
outdone. Salt water had been brought to garnish their wounds, and 
half dead with pain the victims were remounted and allowed to go 
home. It was a sad return to a sadder hearthstone. During the next 
few weeks, while Benson and Dick were being tenderly nursed and 
were slowly recovering, this bold and daring robbery was the all 
absorbing topic of the country and the town. There were not a few 
who doubted Benson's guilt, and who openly denounced the brutal 
whipping, but the Montague family were influential in church and 
State, and Benson's naborhood was almost solid against him. They 
believed in his guilt. As soon as he was a^le to ride in a buggy he 
went to town with his wife and there sent for the sheriff and paid oflf 
that mortgage with five hundred dollars in gold. This capped the 
climax. This made the Montagues desperate. The night afterwards 
fifteen masked and mounted men visited his house again, and seizing 
Benson and Dick, gagged and tied and blindfolded them and took 



338 The Farm and The Fireside. 

them away to parts unknown, j They were kept hidden for a week, 
and were alternately whipped and starved, and every day brought 
new horrors. Benson endured it all with heroism, but Dick gave up 
repeatedly, and w^hen under the excrutiating lash would promise to 
tell it all if they would stop. Then he would confess his guilt and 
declare that *'Mas Tom made him go, and Mas Tom had de money, 
but he didn't know whar he hid it." ''Now Dick — now Dick," Ben- 
son would say, ' ' speak' the truth if they kill you — you know that ain't 
80, is it, Dick? Would you tell a lie on your best friend, Dick?" 
And Dick would reply: "Oh, Mas Tom, dey will kill me if I don't 
tell somefin." As a last resort they built up a brush-heap and laid 
their victims on it and set it on fire. The flames leaped quickly 
through the dry fagots and licked their clothes, and next their skin, 
and they were hastily pulled off the heap and their burning garments 
drenched with water, and still they gave no sign. This was the last, 
and the victims were still alive. They were kept two more days to 
recover the life that was nearly gone, and then during the darkness of 
the following night were returned again to their home. 

Some two months after this the Circuit Court convened in the county 
town, and certain members of the Montague family attended and 
went before the Grand Jury. They exhibited the patch of sorrel hair 
and recited the other evidences of guilt, and procured a true bill for 
robbery and burglary in the night-time. Benson and Dick were 
arrested, and for lack of friends were put in jail. In due time Benson 
was put on trial. An able counselor and eloquent advocate was 
employed by him — a lawyer who had doubts of his guilt and sympa- 
thized with his misfortune. The prosecution was vigorously urged 
and as vigorously defended, and resulted in a verdict of guilty, for 
the patch of sorrel hair was in the way, and proved fatal to liberty. The 
case was carried to the Supreme Court of the State, and the verdict 
affirmed, and Benson was sentenced to the penitentiary for twenty 
years. Alas for the broken-hearted wife and weeping children ! The 
little farm was seized and sold for costs of the prosecution. The 
father went off in chains one way and his wife and children another. 
They removed to Mississippi where Mrs. Benson had kindred, who 
though they were poor, gave her a kind and welcome home. 

Benson had served three^ years of his term. He was growing old, 
and prematurely gray, and was known among the convicts as Jere- 



The Farm and The Fireside. 339 

miah, for his lamentations were sad and frequent. He grieved most 
of all because of the taint that his conviction entailed upon his chil- 
dren, and never failed to assert his innocence to visitors. One day, 
about this time, his counsel received a letter — a very remarkable let- 
ter — written and signed by a man whose name is Robinson. It was 
written in a dungeon — the dungeon of a jail in a distant county in 
this State. It was well written, and was scholarly in language, and 
said, in substance, that the writer was charged with robbery and bur- 
glary, and the evidence was conclusive, and he was only waiting the 
setting of the court to plead guilty and begin the term of his service 
of twenty years in the penitentiary. But there was a man there by 
the name of Benson whom he did not want to meet, for Benson was 
serving and suffering for a crime he did not commit, and if his coun- 
sel would visit the writer, sufficient evidence would be furnished to 
establish his innocence. The letter was of such a character as to 
merit confidence and demand immediate attention. The counsel lost 
no time in making the journey. When he arrived and was admitted 
to the prisoner's cell, he found a gentleman of culture and impressive 
manner — a man who looked more like a poet than a felon. He was 
surrounded by many evidences of refinement. Shakspeare and 
Byron, and various novels were upon his table. His clothing was of 
fine quality, and sat well upon his well formed person. The coun- 
sel was not long in receiving his confession, for it was a con- 
fession of his own guilt in committing the Montague robbery. He 
was educated as a physician, he said, and received his diploma from a 
Virginia college. In his youth he had become fascinated with the 
romances that portrayed a brigand's life, and after removing to St. 
Louis he was induced by some fellows of kindred minds to join in a 
series of adventures, whereby the rich and miserly could be made to 
disgorge, and the poor and needy be lilted up. "We have," said he, 
"distributed thousands and thousands of dollars in this way and 
saved but little for ourselves, for we enjoyed the excitement and peril 
of our calling more than we enjoyed the booty. A few years ago our 
line of service was from St. Louis to Pensacola, and the old man Mon- 
tague was directly on the route. We learned that he was a miser and 
that he hoarded his gold. The week before he was robbed my pal 
and I stayed over night with him, for he was accustomed to entertain 
travelers. I was riding a blooded Kentucky mare and m)' compan- 



340 The Farm and The Fireside. 

ion was well mounted on a fine large sorrel mule. That night we 
made observations of the plan of the house and the surroundings. 
The next morning after breakfast I gave the old man a twenty-dollar 
gold piece to pay our bill, and I saw he was pleased to handle it. I 
saw him go to his bedroom and unlock the old hair trunk and get the 
change, and he had to untie a bag of coin to get it ; then he produced 
a small old leather-bound book which he said was his travelers' book. 
Indeed it had his name rudely written upon the cover. He asked our 
names, and I gave him mine as William Thompson, of Kentucky. 
He wrote it down with a pencil at the top of a page, and spelled my 
name without an **h" or a "p" and marked it ''paid" and left out 
the *'i" in that word. I remember these things distinctly. We 
traveled on to a little village a few miles away and remained there 
until the dark of the moon. We left one evening under pretense of 
visiting some friends in the country and then continuing our journey 
southward, but by the time it was dark we reversed our course, and 
by ten o'clock had passed old Montague's house, and secreted our- 
selves in the woods a quarter of a mile back. There we waited until 
the hour when deep sleep falleth upon man. With our dark lantern 
it was easy to find our way to the house and the window, and still 
easier in our stockings to take the trunk from under the bed where 
two old deaf persons were sleeping. Now, in that trunk we found the 
seven thousand dollars in gold, and we found the two left-hand halves 
of two one hundred dollar bills on the Bank of the State of Georgia. 
These two halves I have kept and they will be sent you in a few days. 
They are marked letter A, and one is numbered 2,096, and the other 
2,097. I have here the Supreme Court reports of this State that con- 
tains the sworn testimony of old man Montague, and he does not men- 
tion these bills. He says he lost nothing but gold; but he did, and 
he knew he did, and no doubt put the ofiicers of the bank upon 
notice. I suppose he had sent off the other halves in a letter and was 
waiting to hear from them before he sent these. Now, my dear sir, 
what more no you want? Is this not enough to release Benson?" 

It 'surely is, said the counsel. He sent the jailer for a magistrate 
and had Dr. Robinson sworn to his confession, and was preparing to 
leave when the doctor arose and said: ''One more thing, my dear sir. 
I have been here long enough to review my life and consider my great 
mistake. I have not done bodily harm to any one in pursuing my 



The Farm and The Fireside. 841 

unlawful avocatioD, but I have brought dishonor upon my only child. 
She has no mother and is living with her grandmother, and they 
know nothing of my manner of life. It has been two years since I 
saw them, but they have not suffered for anything. My gold watch 
and chain are very valuable, and I will have them sent you so that 
you may send them to her. I shall never see her again," and his 
voice trembled and fell as he uttered the last sentence. 

The counsel learned that Robinson had lately robbed an old man in 
that neighborhood of four thousand dollars, and had blundered in his 
boldness, for he was pursued, surrounded and caught with the money 
on his person. The twenty years' sentence would about wind up his 
life, and he knew it and was resigned to his fate. He had taken his 
chances and lost. 

In a few days after the attorney had returned to his home, he 
received a letter enclosing the half bills. The letter was mailed in 
Louisville, Ky., and said this only: '*By direction of my friend, I 
enclose you these half bills." There was no signature. He imme- 
diately interviewed Montague's attorneys and submitted evidence to 
them. They began the perusal of the long confession with a careless 
incredulity, but as they read along a change came over them — a 
change from doubt to conviction — and when the half bills were 
exhil)ited, the elder attorney said with emotion: ** He is innocent. 
No man knew of those half bills but Mr. Montague and myself. I 
charged him to keep it a secret, for I thought the robber would seek 
to collect them from the bank, and it would give us a clue to the 
gold." Let it be mentioned here that on the trial of Benson he was 
unable to prove the fact that Mrs. Benson's father had sent her the five 
hundred dollars that saved the farm from sale. He was old and bed- 
ridden, and could not attend court, for he lived a hundred miles 
away and the friend who brought the money was on his way to the 
West, and could not be heard from in time. So the gold that he paid 
the sheriff remained unaccounted for and was a weight in the scale 
of evidence — a weight not as heavy as the little patch of sorrel hair, 
but with both together, his conviction was sealed. 

Next morning, which was Sunday, the counsel on both sides went 
down to Montague's. Sons and sons-in-law had gathered there as 
usual to spend the day and comfort the aged ancestors. In due time 
the lawyers made known their mission and exhibited all their proofs. 



342 The Farm and The Fireside. 

The traveler's book was called for, and there at the top of a page was 
Wm. Thompson's name, and the spelling was just as it was sworn to, 
and the date was correct, and the .half bills were identified, for the old 
man had made a cross mark upon the corner of each. The children 
were all reluctantly convinced, but the old man shook his head 
solemnly and declared it all a lawyer's trick. * ' If the travelers took 
my money," said he, *' Benson told them where it was, and Benson 
helped them." He refused utterly to sign a petition to the governor 
for Benson's release, but the sons and sons-in-law all signed it after an 
assurance that Benson's counsel would not advise or take a fee to sue 
or prosecute them for damages, for by this time it was pretty well 
known who the masked men were. 

Benson's attorney proceeded next day to Milledgeville, which was 
then the State capital. Howell Cobb was the Governor — a man of 
great tenderness of heart — and when the whole case was made fully 
known to him, he said with much feeling: *'The poor old man; what 
sufferings of mind and body he has endured. I have noticed him 
every time I have visited the convicts, and wondered if there was not 
possibly some mistake. He had a pleading and heart-broken look. 
Let us go there at once and release him." 

When the warden called Benson to them, it was with a choking 
utterance that the governor made known their mission. It came upon 
the poor man with a shock of surprise and joy that sunk him to his 
knees, and he wept like a child. "The Lord be praised!" he 
exclaimed. *'I said that though He slay me, yet would I trust in 
Him. Oh, my wife and my children ! Thank God, thank God, for 
His mercy endureth forever!" His rhapsody knew no bounds, 
and his fellow-prisoners stopped their work to listen and to wonder. 
Benson's striped garments were soon discarded and he was clothed in a 
decent citizen's dress. With glad emotion he bade good-bye to all, 
taking each by the hand and telling them to trust in God and do 
right. On arriving at his county town where he was tried and con- 
victed, he spent a day in meeting the few friends he had there, and 
then with the means furnished by the Governor and his counsel, con- 
tinued his journey to Mississippi in search of his family. 

Some six months afterwards his counsel were surprised by an unex- 
pected visit from him. He looked once more like a man, and was 
clean shaved and well dressed and had less stoop in his broad shoulders 



The Farm and The Fireside. 343 

than when they saw him last. It did not take hira long to disclose his 
business. He had a letter from an eminent lawyer of Mississippi, 
advising a suit to be brought in the United States Court against his 
lynchers, the Montagues and their clan, for damages. His former 
counsel, of course, declined his case which was no more than he 
expected, and he went to Marietta, where the Federal Court was held, 
and there procured the services of an able jurist who at once filed 
fifteen separate actions against fifteen men, and in each action had the 
other fourteen summoned as witnesses by the United States Marshal. 
Each man was sued for ten thousand dollars damages for his arrest and 
imprisonment and maltreatment while their prisoner. 

What a consternation there was in the Montague settlement when 
the Marshal served those writs! What a shaking and quaking of dry 
bones! With what haste and alarm did they hurry to town and seek 
conference with their lawyers. But they found little comfort. The 
lawyers seemed helpless, for they knew the power and the rigor of the 
Federal Court. They knew the inflexible integrity and the stern jus- 
tice of the old judge who presided, and they knew the ability and 
vigor of Benson's counsel. After much consultation it was agreed 
that the Montague lawyers should visit Marietta and, if possible, 
effect a compromise and take the cases out of court. 

In this they succeeded. Fifteen thousand dollars was paid over to 
Benson's counsel w^ithout delay. He took one third of it for his fee 
and Benson returned to his family with ten thousand dollars in his 
pocket. With this sum he purchased another farm and was living 
happily with his wife and children when last heard from. And Dick 
was there — Dick who was released without trial, had followed his mis- 
tress and was her faithful and trusty friend during his master's impris- 
onment. We do not know, but can only imagine, how he rejoiced 
with her and her children when Benson surprised the long bereaved 
household with his presence. 

But what of Dr. Robinson, the bold and dashing brigand — the 
dupe of such romances as Jack Sheppherd and the Robber Clifton and 
the Italian bandit? In due time he was sent to the penitentiary for 
twenty years. His culture and his bearing and good conduct soon 
gave him prominence and favor with the warden. He gave the con- 
victs good advice and set them a good example. He organized a Sab- 
bath-school and became fond of the Scriptures. He sought to make 



344 The Farm and The Fireside. 

amends for Lis past conduct by reclaiming the bad men within the 
prison walls. Time and again he had opportunities to escape, but he 
would not use them. He was urged to ask for a pardon from the 
Governor, but he refused, and even intimated that he w^ould not accept 
it if offered to him, for he declared he had a mission to accomplish 
and there was work for him to do that nobody else would do. 

Time rolled on — Kobinson had been in service about three years. 
He had ministered, like a good Samaritan, among his fellow-prisoners. 
He nursed them when sick, and though there was a nominal physician 
who was paid by the Government, Dr. Robinson was the real one who 
used his professional skill and knowledge among them. 

About this time the war broke out between the States, and when a 
few years after, Sherman made his march to the sea and was fast 
approaching Milledgeville, Governor Brown went down to the 
penitentiary and made the convicts a speech. He told them of the 
wrongs our people had suffered, and of the invasion of our State by 
armed forces who were burning and destroying everything in their 
path. He pictured to them the utter desolation of those whom 
Sherman left behind him, and how helpless women and children were 
fleeing for their lives to escape the brutality of foreign hirelings. He 
told them he was going to discharge them all and turn them out, 
and that it did not follow that they were not patriots because they 
were convicts. And he hoped and believed they would stand up, 
fight for and defend their State and their people and kindred. 

With a wild hurrah, Dr. Robinson threw up his hat and shouted : 
*'To arms, to arms, ye brave!" He had the kettle-drum beat for vol- 
unteers, and organized a company of 160 men, and was unanimously 
elected captain. Their stripes were discarded and soldiers' clothes 
were furnished and guns placed in their hands, and they marched 
forth freemen and patriots, and joined the State troops and fought 
manfully and well, but their efforts were all in vain to arrest the 
onward march of the foe. When Governor Brown resumed the occu- 
pation of the State capital, and the war was over, Dr. Robinson 
returned singly and alone to serve out his sentence, but was refused 
admittance. ''No, sir," said the Governor, with much feeling. "No, 
sir, you have no business there, doctor, for your patients are all 
gone." 

A few years ago the writer of this reminiscence had a letter from a 



The Farm and The Fireside. 345 

friend in St. Louis. "My office," said he, *'is next door to that oi 
Dr. Robinson, well known to you as Montague's robber. He k 
practicing his profession with success in the city. His daughter is 
happily married, and he lives with her, and is highly esteemed." 



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